


To Abide the Inbetween

by BranwenDanu



Category: Victoria (TV)
Genre: 42 Grosvenor Place, Amazing Angleseys, Christmasfluff, Confinement, Drumfred, F/M, M/M, Multi, Plas Newydd, Royal Ascot, Season/Series 02, Temple of Apollo, Victoriansdon'tspeakplainlyevenwhentheytry, Victoriansinrainbows, Wilhefred, Wynnefield Hall, allperiodtypicaldisclaimersapply, emotionalsuperpowers, funandgames, gratuitousmelodrama, harrowedandhaunted, itgetsdarkerthanplanned, loveandcourage, morethanonekindoffix, ohtheeuphemisms, payitforwardkids, sonnetsbeforebreakfast, supernaturalpolyamoryanyone?, thepastwillnotrest, thunderstormsaresexy, weddingday!, whosaysgreekmythologyisn'tgoodforanything
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:08:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 119,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23946706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BranwenDanu/pseuds/BranwenDanu
Summary: A story exploring what happens to and between Alfred and Wilhelmina if we accept the plot the series gave us. How did they get there, and what does it mean for the rest of their lives carried out through the Victorian era's ever-tightening notions of morality with the ghost of Edward Drummond never far away?  What happens when people must abide within the liminal spaces of love and sex, life and death, societal convention and individual desires?
Relationships: Edward Drummond/Alfred Paget, Wilhelmina Coke/Alfred Paget
Comments: 32
Kudos: 21





	1. Between Eight and Nine

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there. I can't believe I am actually posting this. I've never done anything like this in my life. Consequently, I have no idea if I am doing it the right or if there are unwritten rules and conventions I should be following. Apologies in advance for any missteps of this nature. Please know that everything written comes from a place of honesty.
> 
> This story began as a one-off story, my reaction to the general reaction to Alfred's proposal to Wilhelmina in Episode 9. Many people were bothered by his "more than one kind of love" line, yet it resonated with me. I get the argument that their marriage would be a sham and that both characters deserve better. But, what if it wasn't? What if Alfred was both quite fluid and thoroughly comfortable in the safety of his own perfect knack for discretion? What if his initial torture was not one of suppressed sexuality (man v/s society - this theme has been explored thoroughly and well by others), but instead the ordinary madness of extraordinary grief (man v/s self)? What if Wilhelmina had her own story to tell? What if her experience with Alfred and Drummond rocked her world, and she found herself way out ahead of her time? What if Alfred's statement was not explaining something she didn't understand but confirming something she had already figured out for herself? 
> 
> What I wrote satisfied me in terms of a plausible explanation for Episode 9, and I thought that was it. Then, a funny thing happened. These characters kept telling me their story, and it went on well past Episode 9 and all of Series 3. New characters emerged, plots thickened, and the whole thing became a lens for exploring this notion of liminal spaces. There is a lot to tell, and I hope I can get it all out here. Please enjoy!
> 
> This story is entirely fictional. A few real people and places (gently researched) are included but used in fictional ways. There are even a few literary Easter eggs for you nerds out there. I will do my best to make historical notes at the ends of chapters so as not to spoil plot points.

The funeral itself had been a blur. Alfred had done his duty to be sure, but he could scarcely remember how. He’d stood next to Peel. Miss Coke had been there, guiding him when procedure offered no more direction. Sunless sky, damp soil under foot, red against black, and the crushing weight on his right shoulder. He could feel the weight even now, six weeks later.

Had it been so long? Alfred stared out the window of his room into the grey pre-dawn light. Time was distorted - every day too close, too immediate. Scotland was just yesterday, then a lifetime ago. If only he could concentrate long enough, see clearly. Perhaps he’d discover it was a nightmare and wake up to find them back there, together, with the sun warming their faces. _We were just there._ Surely that was reality. Nothing had changed. But how could he suffer a nightmare when sleep itself eluded him? 

He tried to reconstruct the moments in his mind. He’d wounded Drummond after that, and the last time Alfred saw him, his eyes were filled with hurt and anger. It was unbearable to think he’d gone holding that hurt, and Alfred desperately wanted to undo it. If only he’d been more courageous, more honest, quicker to right the wrong. Nothing made sense. He couldn’t square the past with the present. How could anything change so quickly, be left so unfinished?

Surely, he shouldn’t feel this way. It was outsized, overwrought. What he and Drummond shared was momentary and ephemeral. And what possibly could have come of it? He was mad. 

No. 

No, they had loved. He was certain. All that time, before that moment, before everything became too real, they had been in love. Why had he not acted sooner? He stepped away from the window and began to dress, still scrutinizing his emotions.

It wasn’t his first affaire. He’d long known desire. Beauty fascinated him, and he was drawn to anyone possessing it. There was the strapping cricket captain at Eton, the brilliant novelist who saw gothic romance behind every hedgerow, and of course Harriet - he had contrived more than one stolen kiss from her in their years growing up. None of it was serious. Mostly, he delighted in the flirtation - provoking blushed cheeks and timid smiles, thrilling at the hint of danger. Beauty and pleasure, pleasure and risk. But never love, never his soul. 

Never until Drummond. With Drummond awakened bewildering new desires – an urge for intimacy and honesty that left him exposed, and an instinctive call to offer shelter and protection. Love. Alfred had only just begun to understand it. He had allowed love, and now he could neither hold it nor let it go. 

His mind was like a tempest, swirling, spiraling, and doubling back on itself. At the center, there was Drummond himself – his flashing eyes, impish smile, and perfect form, his sharp intellect, lofty ambition, and impulsive passion. Alfred simply missed him.

He kept his pain close. It was a private burden. Day after day, as he did now, he cinched the black band around his arm, put on his uniform, and shut out the thoughts, the memories, the guilt, and the longing. When he was sure of his numbness, he exited the room and proceeded downstairs to face another day of duty. Ever the master of the performative smile, he played his role well enough. It was salvation really. So long as there were matters to attend to, he didn’t have to think. Besides, there was no cheerful expectation - melancholy was everywhere. The royal household had all been shocked and saddened by the frightening event of Drummond’s death, and they all felt his absence. 

As Alfred reached the stairs, he spotted the Duchess of Buccleuch and Wilhelmina coming from the other end of the hallway. He paused to take a breath, then lifted his head, summoned a smile, and said “Good morning Duchess, Miss Coke. What has you up at this early hour?” 

“Breakfast Lord Alfred,” replied the Duchess, extending her arm for him to assist her down the stairs.

“Won’t you join us?” asked Wilhelmina enthusiastically as they reached the bottom of the staircase.

Internally, Alfred recoiled at the thought of sharing the company of the two women alone. Though they would be nothing but kind and politely indirect, there would be no avoiding sorrow with them. Quickly, he smiled and answered, “A tempting invitation, Miss Coke, but I must decline. Duty calls.” He gestured toward the offices, gave a slight bow to excuse himself, and walked, a little too hastily, away.

*************************************************

Wilhelmina saw the pain in Alfred’s eyes despite his affable manner. She did not believe his excuse. She had come to know him too well. From the time she arrived at court unprepared and apprehensive, he had been one of the most magnanimous people she had ever met. She noticed that while many courtiers were duplicitous and plotting, Alfred seemed to see people for their worth and treat them accordingly, always looking to ensure the comfort of those deserving. He had truly rescued her pride after the Prince Earnest debacle, and for a while she’d felt a dawning infatuation. _Nothing like feeling smitten to make one both seek to know - and willfully ignore - everything about a person,_ she mused. Nonetheless, their friendship had deepened, and now he was carrying a private sorrow, one she couldn’t help but notice. She had been so often overlooked as a child that her heart bent toward observation of anyone similarly suffering. She would never expose him with confrontation, but she offered quiet comfort and little distractions where she could. She supposed he must be in a particularly dark mood this morning.

As she sat down to her eggs and toast, a footman came in with two letters. One was a note from dear Florence thanking her for the consolation and friendship she’d offered at the funeral. Wilhelmina could not avoid thinking her friend had dodged a lifetime of unhappiness and felt guilty knowing her greater comfort had been for Lord Alfred. The profound sadness of the situation lingered, and she missed Drummond too. He was also a friend to her and part of the coterie she’d come to think of as an odd family – the little circle bound in such singular circumstance, sharing adventures and ordeals with which no others could possibly relate. That she was a part of it still struck her as surprising. When she came to the palace, she never anticipated she would be accepted, let alone enter into such friendship. It was wonderful, and it was necessary, as the strictures of their society left scant quarter to pursue happiness in the open. It seemed they all were aching for someone or something unavailable, unable to escape a set of rules they had no hand in creating, balanced on the knife’s edge knowing that gaining the one thing meant losing everything. Though nothing was or could be spoken of these troubles, between them there was solidarity, and it meant the world to Wilhelmina.

As she reread the letter, Wilhelmina offered silent prayers – of comfort for Florence, of benediction for Drummond’s soul, and of thanks for the kinship of tacit understanding. She thought again of Drummond, and the hours they’d all spent together traveling, debating passionately and flirting playfully to pass time, pursuing diplomacy and pleasure. She thought back to the moment she saw him with Alfred. It had been a shock, but their tenderness had touched her. She’d reached for understanding, never allowing the ties of friendship to unravel. The bond they all shared meant more to her than the court or the government or even the tenets of her upbringing, and so without their ever knowing, she shared their secret too. 

At once, she was filled with sadness and a surprising rage. The story she had been telling in her mind was like something out of a novel – a forbidden and secret love, a tragic and heroic death – the kind that would occupy her for hours safely sheltered under a tree in a garden, crying for pleasure. But there was no pleasure here, only waste, senselessness, and pain. 

On the verge of tears, Wilhelmina purposefully shifted her attention to the second letter. It was from her mother. It began with the usual inquisition into her personal circumstances, the growing impatience and disapproval unveiled. Her mother warned that her time in the palace may be coming to an end. With the passage of the Repeal, the Whigs would surely come to power and Her Majesty would be all too eager to change her Ladies. She’d had four years of introduction to society at the highest levels, and what had she made of it? The letter concluded with a short note indicating that arrangements were being made to offer her as governess to a neighboring family should she remain available at the conclusion of her service.

Wilhelmina once again felt furious. She had indeed come to the palace full of expectation that some dashing lord would fall in love with her and she with him. She’d been attentive, followed every rule, never been disagreeable, but she found that no amount of courtesy and talent made up for great beauty and easy charm. It was not her fault men seemed to give their hearts to everyone but her. Why, when she could not direct her fate, could she be blamed for its outcome? Was she supposed to believe something was wrong with her?

With tearful eyes, she passed the letter across the table to the Duchess. “Wilhelmina,” her aunt addressed her in the loving but firm tone that was her custom, “I can do without my sister’s sentiments, but on fact, there is little dispute. The Season is nearly over, and next year may well bring changes. If you insist on choice in the matter, you must widen your eyes.” 

The Duchess hoped her admonition would inspire reason in Wilhelmina. She had always cherished her niece, first as a good-hearted child who never failed to find worth in even the most disagreeable people, and now as a kind woman with an inner strength few observed. Though she scarcely understood the role, Wilhelmina would be a good wife. She deserved a peaceable situation. If only she could get that silly romance out of her head. Sir Walter Scott had robbed of sense every girl from Yorkshire to Kent! Now, the Duchess thought, matters might best be left in her hands.

**************************************************************

Alfred was relieved to see Miss Coke and the Duchess go without protest. He thought he had glimpsed a flash of disappointment in her eyes, but he could not take on anyone else’s feelings just now. Not today. Not on so little sleep. He felt guilty at the selfishness. Normally, he was quick to put himself aside for anyone else’s comfort, particularly a friend, and Miss Coke had become a friend indeed. He liked her. She was different from the other women at court, full of refreshing earnestness and enthusiasm rather than feigned boredom and idle gossip. It was clear that she had not been brought up in their circle. While she followed the customs of etiquette flawlessly, she seemed utterly unaware of all the unwritten rules. Since that was Alfred’s favorite territory, he often stepped in for her before she found herself embarrassed. She was an odd mix of personality. In one moment she could be almost supernaturally empathic, then in another nearly oblivious to the temperature of a room. Of late however, her awareness had grown, and she had been intercepting for him too. It was as though she could anticipate his breaking points and understood the need to shelter them. He suspected her awkwardly eager and incessantly sunny demeanor hid a deep and unresolved hurt. People had been unkind to her. It was not his business to know how or why, but nevertheless, he counted her among the walking wounded ensconced in the trappings of a charmed life. 

_A charmed life,_ he thought sarcastically. How little most people knew of pageantry, perception, and paradox, of his own gilded hell. Once again, his thoughts began swirling. He felt as though the enormous building was shrinking and closing in. The weight of grief was with him so constantly now that it became a thing unto itself, detached from its source, pressing hard enough to suffocate. Yet that unwelcome companion was more generous than the twin demons – memory and fact – whose unpredictable and jagged blades could rip the wound open afresh without warning. Alfred stopped, closed his eyes, and forced himself back into a steely numbness before proceeding down the hallway.

A dejected Sir Robert Peel waited outside the Queen’s offices. He had arrived early and without any companion to assist him or pass the time. He was fidgeting with one of his gloves as Alfred approached. Alfred studied the man for a moment. His shoulders slumped forward, and his face carried an expression of weariness. No wonder, he had been shaken by the attack and was under tremendous pressure between the Repeal and the situation in Ireland. But there was something else, an unusual sense of sadness and defeat. Clearly, the pain of loss was with him too. 

Alfred did not want to open the subject but knew he must free the poor man from his own mind. “Peel. I didn’t expect to find you here so early.”

“Good morning Lord Alfred. I fear it is going to be a long day."

“Sir, I am happy to offer my assistance.” 

“Thank you. I’ve not been able to find a suitable candidate…” Peel looked away. 

Alfred gathered his composure, still dreading the door he was about to open. “I believe Drummond is irreplaceable Sir.” He found Peel’s eyes and offered a look of understanding and compassion.

Peel, surprised by the gesture, put his hand on Alfred’s shoulder and nodded. The two men held still for a moment, unsure of how to continue, then Peel, remembering something, stepped back and began searching his pockets. From his coat he produced a folded piece of paper. “I’ve been meaning to give you this,” he said. “Drummond had it with him when,” he trailed off briefly, then “when we passed the Repeal. He couldn’t join me afterward. Said he had an engagement to get to. I suppose…” 

Alfred, unfolding the letter, interrupted, “Thank you, Sir. I’m glad to have it.” He replaced the letter in his own coat and swiftly turned the conversation to matters of state.

Later, Alfred managed to steal some time alone on the balcony. He ran his hand over the letter, rereading his last words to Drummond, cherishing the connection between the paper and his hands too. He smiled, feeling relief from the question that had tortured him, knowing he’d reached Drummond in time, knowing he’d intended to come. Alfred would have that consolation at least. Then, realizing what might have been, the loss grew all the larger and threw him into new depths of sorrow.

**********************************************************************

Bright September sun filtered through leaves just tinged with yellow, and a crisp breeze fluttered through the park’s banners as Victoria’s usual entourage proceeded on their daily ride. Her Majesty seemed energized by the changing season. Alfred had noticed her growing impatience with the gloomy mood in the Palace. She seemed eager to turn everyone’s attention to new endeavors. She had all but ordered Peel to take on a new secretary. _If only it were so easy._ The new man was to be introduced today at a meeting regarding industry, and Alfred dreaded his attendance. He focused on the familiar movements of his horse and braced himself for a trying afternoon.

Sitting in the back of the carriage, Wilhelmina and the Duchess of Buccleuch discussed the previous week’s festivities. The royal household had attended a grand party given by Mr. Gladstone, President of the Board of Trade and his wife. It was nominally a victory party for the Repeal but seemed contrived more to get the royal couple’s attention, which it did successfully given that Gladstone was returning today to discuss his agenda. The Duchess had been more concerned with making acquaintances between Wilhelmina and a few of the gentlemen in attendance and had been quite hopeful that a match might turn up. However, her niece seemed rather glum, so she suspected the encounters had been a disappointment. She inquired, “Wilhelmina, did you enjoy the Gladstone affair? I thought it quite agreeable.”

“Well, it was an elegant party but rather tiresome if you ask me.”

“I’d prefer to ask you what you thought of Lord Paxton. You know he is a relation on your father’s side and the Paxtons have always been in close connection with our family.”

“Oh, Lord Paxton,” Wilhelmina narrowed her eyes and simmered, “He was no more gracious than he was as a child when he would pull my hair and splash mud on my dress. Now, he claims he does not even remember me and had the discourtesy to ask how I could possibly find myself at court. I don’t believe he can imagine knowing someone without title. I’m sure Mother would love him.”

“Wilhelmina, that’s beneath you. What of Lord Fitzpatrick? You appeared to enjoy his company. He seems rather clever.”

“Yes, Lord Fitz is both clever and charming, and his company is terribly amusing, but he is not to be counted upon.”

“Why not?”

“I would have thought you knew - it’s hardy a secret. Lady Charlotte Pomeroy rejected him twice, and unless she changes her mind, Lord Fitz will die pining for her.”

“A fool!” The Duchess shook her head. “Lady Pomeroy has had the occasion to, unlike most of us, inherit her father’s estate. Her fortune is secure. She has no need of marriage. She would rather tromp about the grounds in her boots and chop her own wood.” Still shaking her head, she added, “And I suppose there was no one else worth mentioning. Well, Wilhelmina, we shall persevere.”

Wilhelmina gave her aunt a half-hearted smile. She was not convinced this sort of matchmaking held any hope for discovering real happiness. 

Upon the conclusion of the outing, a footman met Wilhelmina and the Duchess at the door. He had another letter from Wilhelmina’s mother. Wilhelmina opened it with dread. The contents were as expected – gossip from Lady Paxton suggesting her underwhelming performance at the Gladstone party, further admonition to give her full attention to her future, and unwelcome news that the plans to send her off as a governess were progressing. Wilhelmina sighed and handed the letter to her Aunt. “If you don’t mind, I am going to take my leave and walk out in the gardens a while. I am feeling rather out of sorts at the moment, and I would prefer not to let it be known.” She turned and strode back out the door with none of her customary modesty. The Duchess scanned the letter, then lifted her head to the ceiling so that her eyes might roll farther back. She let Wilhelmina go without protest.

************************************************************

The conversation with Gladstone began promptly after luncheon in the Queen’s offices. Victoria and Albert sat behind her desk with Gladstone standing opposite. Peel was yet absent, and Alfred caught himself hoping he might be relieved of meeting the new secretary for another day. Instead, Peel was announced and hurried in followed by a younger man in a dark suit with steely eyes and slightly unkempt brown hair blending into the whiskers descending to his chin. Alfred instantly disliked him. “May I introduce Mr. Hughes,” said Peel, making way for the man to step forward. 

A palpable awkwardness hung in the room as Mr. Hughes stood the inspection of the royal couple. The man stood at attention with a look of impatience and unease. Albert was first to break the silence. “Ah, yes,” he said, “You come highly recommended. I apologize if we have caused you discomfort. I fear we still regret the loss of your predecessor.” 

“Yes,” said Mr. Hughes testily, “I understand Mr. Drummond casts quite a long shadow. I hope I will be able to operate outside of it.” 

Peel, alarmed by his man’s impertinence, moved to speak, but Victoria was quicker. Looking directly at him, she said, “Mr. Hughes, you will excuse us if the sun has not yet set on that shadow. We shall see if it rises for you.” Then turning to the group, “Now, shall we get on to business. It is apparent to me that our factories, which should be the envy of the world, are falling into disrepute due to certain labor practices…”

Alfred felt like he had been punched in the gut. _Was it so easy to carry on?_ He could hardly keep his composure as he turned to stare out a window. Voices droned in the background – some debate over labor and innovation. He wished he could be anywhere else. Through the window he could see horses tied to posts – how he would like to take one and ride as far and fast as he could. He was pulled back by the Queen’s voice. “Lord Alfred. Lord Alfred, are you quite alright? I believe you’ve wandered out into the park.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” said Alfred, “My apologies. My mind was on another matter.” 

“Well, if you’ve returned, I was just saying we should have another soiree of the arts and sciences as we did a few years ago. Sir Robert informs me that the Royal Society is inducting the youngest new member in its history – a man applying Newton’s physics to machines that might produce more from our factories without the use of children. In these trying economic times, I think it would do everyone good to see how our British scientists can both invigorate and bring greater decency to industry, and of course we’ll need the arts to keep everyone awake. Will you please do your part?” 

“Yes, ma’am,” said Alfred, feeling another stab in the gut. “I’ll get started right away if you’ll excuse me. I believe there are some paintings of note at the Pantechnicon that we could borrow and exhibit. I was planning to go there this afternoon about some things for the carriages.” Alfred hoped his ruse was believable, but he didn’t much care. He had to do something to get away from the Palace. 

Victoria looked briefly puzzled, but nodded and said, “Yes, Lord Alfred, if you are so eager, you may be excused.” Alfred bowed and backed away for the door, trying not to look too hurried. As he exited, her overheard Albert saying “Victoria, you cannot solve every crisis with a party.” _How true, and more so for a party’s echo._

Alfred raced through the palace toward the passage leading to the carriage house. On his way, he passed the Duchess of Buccleuch, only half noting that she was alone. He hardly offered a greeting, but the look on his face made his excuses for him. He continued on, hoping he would run into no one else. Outside, the tranquil sunshine of the morning had given way to a chilly drizzle.

When he reached the carriage house, he hastily pulled on his boots, sent the grooms away, and began to tack up his horse himself. He needed to leave. His stirrups were missing. He vaguely remembered he’d sent them for repair. That had been a week ago. Surely, they were finished. Where were they? He stormed into the tack room and began tearing into the well-organized cabinets expecting to find the items that he knew would not be there. Finding nothing but frustration, he picked up a brush and threw it. It sailed through the room and smashed a pane of the opposite window. Before any of the grooms could respond, he grabbed the nearest pair of stirrups and returned to his horse. He finished the tack, mounted the horse, and left. The astonished grooms stared after him, as they had never seen Alfred behave in such an uncivilized manner. He looked back but offered no explanation or apology. 

The urgency to get away was his only thought, and it was beginning to feel like panic. Where could he go? He’d said he needed to go to the Pantechnicon, but that could wait, and he could hardly stand the tedious streets. He needed to ride, and ride fast. There was a trail though the wooded area at the far side of the park. Maybe there he would not be observed. He took his horse to a gallop and steered him to the trail. He rode like a jockey in a steeple chase, jumping fallen logs and ducking under branches. For a moment, he wondered what would happen if he missed. He might be hit in the head. It might all be over. He wasn’t sure he would mind. The dark notion frightened him just enough. He regained control of himself and gave his horse some needed assurance. Still, he continued to ride with a furious focus, mud flying around him, sweat soaking his clothes, but never fast enough to escape his hell.

*******************************************************

Walking through the familiar gardens, Wilhelmina began to collect herself. The light shower had dampened her dress and was beginning to soak her bonnet. Little drips fell from its ruffles and onto her face. Nevertheless, she preferred to remain outside. Here, she felt a peaceable distance from her troubles. The gardens, full of autumn roses, chrysanthemums, and asters looked vibrant in the misty rain. She’d grown to love this place and wished her service would not end. If she could stop time, she wouldn’t mind so much if life continued just as it was. Here among her friends, she was safe from the precarious business of marriage. As she approached the pond, she spied Alfred on his horse coming up the hill looking rakish. She was pleased to see him and called out, “Good afternoon Lord Alfred!”

“Miss Coke.” He replied apprehensively, looking around to see who else was there. “I’m surprised to find you here in this weather.”

Wilhelmina caught his eye and ventured, “I had a letter from home with some rather unwelcome news, and I found that I needed some air.” She looked at him expectantly. If he were to inquire, she was ready to confide. It would be a comfort to share her burdens with someone other than her aunt. He ignored her invitation and looked away. Wilhelmina felt rejected and confused. She searched him for an answer and realized that what she had mistaken for rakishness was something darker. She quickly shifted her concern from herself to him. “It looks as though you’ve been riding in a swamp. What has you out in this?” She lifted her arms to indicate the rain.

“It’s none of your concern Miss Coke,” he snapped, “Please, just leave me alone. I do not need your charity.” He glared down at her with cold eyes and a clenched jaw. Her arms dropped to her sides, and she stood frozen, looking up at him with a mix of shock and bewilderment. He held his glare as he took up the reins and started to leave. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed her shiver slightly, her eyes welling with tears. 

The sight shook him from his misplaced callousness. Clearly, he was not the only person suffering. He stopped and said warmly, “Miss Coke, I am sorry. You don’t deserve such ill treatment. I have had an exceedingly difficult afternoon, but I should not have spoken so harshly. I hope you can forgive me.” Wilhelmina nodded tentatively, but a pleading hurt lingered in her eyes. Seeing it, he considered her situation a moment, then ventured “And I am sorry for whatever is troubling you. Impossible expectations perhaps?”

“Yes, Lord Alfred, that is a part of it. A discussion best left for another time.” Wilhelmina no longer felt like revealing herself but decided she could do without adding hurt feelings to her troubles. She was wet and cold besides. “You are forgiven, Lord Alfred. Now, we both should be getting indoors before we are soaked through,” she said definitively. She added, “Please take care of yourself,” as she turned toward the palace and walked away.

“You as well, Miss Coke,” Alfred called after her, the tone of his voice still looking to make up for his earlier harshness. When she was out of sight, he placed his head in his hands and sighed, realizing he had overstepped the line of reasonable angst and indulged a vain tantrum. He resolved to get ahold of himself and on with his duties. Turning his horse for the carriage house, he began to compose the apology he owed the staff.

*******************************************************

The Queen’s soiree of arts and sciences took place a few weeks later. There was a dinner following, and the Duchess of Buccleuch ordered the seating with precision. This might be her last chance. The guest of honor, the younger Lord Augustus Croom, she placed at center of the table, away from Albert who would surely monopolize his time. She interspersed the other guests – the head of the Royal Society, the Prime Minister, Mr. Gladstone, and a few other notable scientists – with members of the household. She assigned Alfred a seat near Victoria. Within her sphere, he would not be likely to drift into down spiritedness. Wilhelmina would sit next to Lord Croom. Perhaps the two could become acquainted. She positioned herself across the table so that she might observe and encourage conversation if needed.

Dinner began with a toast to Lord Croom, who took the opportunity to hold forth regarding his latest theory of applied physics at length. He held his lanky frame in a posture indicating the defensive pride of a bright youth lacking any worldly experience and continually brushed away from his forehead a piece of greasy hair that would not stay put. He did not seem to notice his hungry companions becoming restless until Albert interrupted, “Lord Croom, what marvelous thinking! It seems that if your theories find application, countless Englishmen might return home from the factories in time to enjoy a hot meal.” He gestured to the servants to bring in the next course. Relieved, the party broke into the customary banter of small groups. A red-faced Lord Croom huffily consumed his fish. 

Wilhelmina knew her placement next to Lord Croom was by design. Expectations were high, and she had a lot of work to do. The guest of honor had just caused himself humiliation, and now no one was speaking with him. She thought a change of subject might help. “Lord Croom,” she offered, “did you have a chance to see the paintings this afternoon?” 

“I did not Miss.” He answered curtly. 

Wilhelmina tried again, “Perhaps you would like to see them after dinner. I’d be delighted to give you a tour.” 

Lord Croom did not pick up the cue. “I believe I am due to go over my drawings with the Prince after dinner, so I shall be occupied.” 

Wilhelmina did not allow herself to become frustrated. Perhaps men of practical science were not inclined toward courtesy. If that was the case, she could engage him in his own realm. “Tell me about your drawings, Lord Croom. I understand much good may come from your proposals.” 

Lord Croom again launched into a very technical description of his work, making no effort to see that anyone was following. Wilhelmina made a genuine attempt to engage but found she could not keep track of his inside jargon. Plus, his manner of speaking offered no levity, so despite her commitment to the task, she found herself quite bored. She glanced down the table at Lord Alfred. He looked miserable and seemed to be avoiding the new Mr. Hughes, who seemed to be outdoing even Lord Croom with the self-congratulations. She caught his eye, and they shared a look of camaraderie. Lord Croom noticed her distraction and stopped his speech short. He glared at Wilhelmina and said insincerely, “Oh my apologies Miss. I must be boring you. I forget that women don’t much follow science. Shall I explain it to you in simpler terms?” 

Wilhelmina felt hot. Truthfully, she didn’t care much for physics, but she need not be insulted. She was game to learn about any matter of interest if only the teller cared that she was listening. She caught a pointed glance from her aunt, took a breath, smiled and said, “Yes Sir, please do continue.”

By the time the dessert dishes were removed, Wilhelmina felt defeated. It was clear Lord Croom had interest only in himself and no regard for social graces. She would not please her mother tonight, but good riddance. She did not want to endure another minute of Lord Croom’s company, much less untold years. Why did so many men have to be such boors? And why should women be expected to suffer them for their livelihood? The queen dismissed the party from the table, and Lord Croom wasted no time in excusing himself. Wilhelmina looked at the Duchess. “I’m sorry Aunt. It seems I am not a force. I think I shall take a few moments by myself with the paintings.” She curtsied and left for the temporary gallery.

Wilhelmina stood in front of a large canvas. It showed Titian’s rendition of Ovid’s Andromeda and Perseus. Andromeda chained to the rocks, passively waiting to be devoured – _What a timeless metaphor._ Six months ago, she would have reveled in the thought of the gallant hero and his daring rescue. Now, she wondered if Andromeda might only be passing from one beast to another. Wilhelmina’s face betrayed her dark mood, as Alfred crept up beside her. He smelled of whiskey.

“Is it as bad as that?” he asked, indicating the painting with a swoop of his glass. 

“Lord Alfred. I didn’t see you there,” she said, her face softening. “I do believe you’re drunk.”

“Perhaps,” he said, steadying himself on her shoulder, as he produced a glass of brandy from behind his back. He presented it to her then turned his gaze back to the painting. 

Wilhelmina broke into a smile and chuckled at the gesture. She sipped the brandy as she followed his stare and resumed her previous line of thought. With a matter-of-fact tone she answered, “And, yes, I believe it is. You see, no one ever asked Andromeda. She’s merely an pawn in everyone else’s story.” 

“And what do you believe she would answer?” he asked. 

“I think she would like to be set free without condition,” Wilhelmina replied. 

“Hmm,” said Alfred affirmingly, “Well, Miss Coke, I am no Perseus, but would you accompany me to the music room? I believe some of our company would like to hear you play.” He gave her a dramatic bow and stepped aside with a hand pointing down the hall.

*********************************************************

The Season was over. There would be little excitement until Christmas. Wilhelmina could not decide if this was good or bad. It had been a dreadful summer, one she was glad to see go, but what of the future? She looked across the gravel path at the royal children playing on the grass. Could she enjoy commanding children all day? Would she like living in yet another person’s house? The thought did not give her a warm feeling. She left her painting and strolled over to Harriet, who was giving only half attention to her own work. “Harriet,” she said, “Do you think we shall be at court much longer?”

“I don’t know,” said Harriet, “It does seem that change is in the air. I don’t know how the Prime Minister is to survive, and a change of government always puts one’s position in peril.”

“Weren’t you here before during a Whig government?”

“Yes, but – oh, I don’t want to disappoint you – my appointment is no longer political. Your aunt’s is very much so, and Her Majesty will be eager to have Emma Portman back.”

“Yes, I’m sure she’ll be glad to have her friend near her again.” Wilhelmina looked downcast.

“I’m sorry Wilhelmina. I hate to think of you leaving. It’s been such a lovely surprise to have you along. Can I confide something?”

“Of course.”

“My time in the Palace may come to an end soon too. My husband left me with many responsibilities at our estate and our children without parents when I am here. Unless my situation were to change,” Harriet lingered over the words allowing Wilhelmina to fill in the details, “I believe my place is at home.”

“Oh Harriet, I hope things work out for you,” Wilhelmina said sincerely, then upon reflection, her expression turned dark. As long as they were in confidence, she ventured, “Lately, I am angered that each of us must suffer the decisions of others, that we have so little to do about our own fates. I feel quite naïve, believing all my life that modern marriages were matches of free will, and if that was true, then no one would choose for anything other than passionate love.”

“Oh Dear,” replied Harriet. “Whatever gave you that idea? There is only one woman I know who had the power to contrive such a situation.” Harriet looked over at Victoria, who was standing confidently as she placed measured strokes on her canvas. “Most of us do the best we can to stay on the right side of the laws of God and man.”

“Do you think it wrong to want to please both God and oneself?”

“Wrong, no, but a fantasy. Pleasure,” again Harriet left space for imagination, “is not so hard to come by. The heart, on the other hand, will dwell where it chooses. Income and position do not necessarily have anything to do with either.”

Wilhelmina was surprised by Harriet’s frankness and felt more foolish than before. Out of her depth, she had no appropriate response. The two women stood silently, contemplating their positions, as gathering clouds signaled the end of their recreation. 

From the edge of the garden, the Duchess of Buccleuch noticed Wilhelmina’s unsettled expression. It pained her to see her niece in such a precarious place, and she was disappointed that her efforts had been for naught. However, she had to admit that the none of the potential suitors had shown themselves worthy of Wilhelmina’s heart. She called to Wilhelmina, “Come before we are caught in a deluge. I have a letter from your cousin.” 

Wilhelmina bid goodbye to Harriet and quickly joined her aunt. “The baby?” she asked. 

“Yes. My first great grandchild! A boy. They are calling him Henry. I believe I would like to visit before the weather turns, and you, my child, could stand some fresh sea air.”

“Solton! And Dover! How I loved walking along the cliffs with Cousin Edie when we were girls. Could we perhaps make a stop?” Wilhelmina’s spirits revived at the thought of visiting one of her favorite places. Before the thought was finished, she was telling her aunt, “Oh! We should take Lord Alfred with us. I’m sure some sea air would do him a world of good too.” Then, catching her aunt’s disapproving expression, “I mean, it would be safer to travel with a gentleman along.”

“Wilhelmina, you have taken quite an interest in Lord Alfred’s wellbeing.” The Duchess looked at her squarely, expecting an answer.

“He is my friend, Aunt. It breaks my heart to see him suffer so, and there is no one else to look after him.”

“I see. Very well,” the Duchess nodded reluctantly. “I will speak to Her Majesty about it. We’ll leave as soon as arrangements can be made.”

*********************************************

The familiar drive through the Kent countryside put Wilhelmina at ease. It was the height of autumn, and the sun beamed at a gentle angle that made the foliage sparkle like champagne. She leaned out the window to drink it in. The closer they got to Solton, the finer she felt. It was one of her favorite places in the world and one of the few where she felt at home. It had been nearly two years since she had last been there for her cousin Edie’s wedding. She couldn’t contain her exuberance.

“You are going to love Solton, Lord Alfred!” she exclaimed. Alfred had been lost in a melancholy stare out the opposite window but snapped to attention with a performative smile.

“Tell me Miss Cook, what is your fondness for the place?”

“Well, it is beautiful for one. But not like the palace. It’s not kept just so. It’s like nature might reclaim it at any moment but is holding back just so you can be there.”

“It’s a farm Lord Alfred,” offered the Duchess in a clarifying tone.

“I see,” said Alfred, nodding at Wilhelmina to let her know he understood it was clearly more to her. “What is your connection to it Duchess?” he asked.

“My second daughter married Lord Hatton, and they used the farm as a summer cottage. Now my granddaughter and her family live there.”

Wilhelmina interrupted, “I used to come to Solton to spend the summer too. You see, I was the youngest of my family by some years. My next oldest brother was already sixteen when I was born. Mother and Father thought they were finished with children, and when I wasn’t away at school, I was an inconvenience, so they brought me to stay with the Hattons.”

The Duchess glared at Wilhelmina. She did not like the family’s business aired, even in a closed coach on a country road. It was unseemly. Wilhelmina was undeterred. “Cousin Edie is only a year older and an only child. We were inseparable and just about had the run of the place.” 

Alfred looked pleased to hear Wilhelmina speak warmly of something from her childhood. From everything he had heard, he assumed her family and upbringing to be of the severe sort. “Tell me Miss Coke,” he inquired, “Did the two of you get into mischief?”

“Oh, I suppose there was some mischief, but mostly we ran barefoot hunting for sprites, made crowns of flowers, and pretended to be Guinevere or Queen Mab. No one much minded us. Lord Hatton usually had business in Calais or London, and Lady Morgaine, well, she was not one for corsets or putting up her hair when there was no one around to see.” Wilhelmina noticed her aunt shift with discomfort in her seat. “Oh, I’m sorry Aunt. I know you do not like her, but she was very good to us.”

“She is a heathen Wilhelmina,” scoffed the Duchess, then turning to Alfred, she said, “Lord Alfred, since my niece sees fit to pull you into our family’s private matters, it would help you to know that my dear daughter Winifred unmercifully died in childbirth, leaving Edie with her father alone. In his grief, he broke with the church and civilized society. When Edie was two years old, he remarried a most unsuitable woman whose influence must be tempered at every turn.”

Wilhelmina gave her aunt a pointed look. “Aunt, you exaggerate. Lady Morgaine was kind and generous and a fine mother to Edie. She and Lord Hatton may have been unconventional, but at least their home was bright and happy.” The Duchess simmered as Wilhelmina continued, “Solton was more home to me than anywhere else. Lord Alfred, if you could only imagine! Some evenings when Lord Hatton was at home, they would build a bonfire and cook everything outdoors. We ate on blankets in the meadow and didn’t bother to dress for dinner. Lord Hatton, always wishing to impart some philosophy, would recite passages from the great thinkers of the Enlightenment. Of course, Edie and I did not last long before we begged him to stop and play some music so we could sing and dance in the firelight. It was like a primordial wonderland.”

Alfred smiled broadly at the thought of Wilhelmina as a care-free child. “It sounds idyllic,” he said. “It will be an honour to see the place.”

“What about you Lord Alfred?” offered Wilhelmina, taking care not to monopolize the conversation. “What were your childhood summers like?”

“Not too dissimilar from yours in the sense that no one paid particular attention to all of the children running about. There were fifteen of us, and on top of that, we had house guests nearly all the time. The adults were always off shooting or entertaining themselves with endless garden parties and balls that went on late into the night. Septimus and I would pretend we were intrepid agents of the Secret Service in Napoleon’s France, observing our targets from alcoves and hedgerows with the utmost secrecy. The things we saw when it was believed no one was looking! Afterward, we would sneak off to sleep out on the heath, and no one would notice our absence until we turned up for breakfast looking like hobgoblins.”

“How adventurous of you!” declared Wilhelmina.

“It was a good time,” replied Alfred wistfully. “I dare say, I did not particularly want to grow up.” He trailed off, having returned from the light-hearted memories to his present reality, full of more complication that he could have ever imagined as a boy.

Wilhelmina sensed the change in mood, and remembering her own travails, turned back to the window. The Duchess, having held her tongue during the exchange, could resist temptation no longer. “But grow up one must.” She added gratuitously. 

The remainder of the drive passed silently, as there was no way to get the air back into the balloon. They arrived at Solton in time for dinner and a warm family reunion. The reminiscence resumed between the young women, and talk naturally turned on the new baby. Wilhelmina became a lighter version of herself with an ease she never showed at court. The Duchess too seemed to relax some of her normally unbending formality in order to assume the role of Grandmama. Alfred wondered what he was doing there. The queen had asked him personally to assist the aging Duchess, but she seemed perfectly able without his help. He occupied himself by asking Edie’s husband for several tours of the farm and his improvements to it. A few quiet days passed before it was time to return to London. 

The carriage was readied, and a picnic lunch packed. Wilhelmina caught Alfred sipping coffee on the terrace. “Be sure to wear your boots,” she said. “I have a surprise.” Alfred directed his free hand toward the muddy field boots he had been wearing since they arrived and looked at her inquisitively. “We’re going to make a stop at the cliffs!” she supplied excitedly. “My aunt has agreed to a sensible dose of fresh air before we endure another long ride.”

“Oh well, so long as it’s sensible.” smirked Alfred. He supposed he might as well go along with one more excursion. After three days of polite superfluousness, his is inclusion in the entire trip felt absurd. _Why not ice the cake with a visit to the seaside?_ Anyway, it beat the brooding that had kept him up all night. Sea air indeed had its mystical qualities. Perhaps it would do something for him. 

**********************************************************

As Alfred and Wilhelmina walked along the cliffs, the bracing sea air blew against their faces. Though the sky hung low with thick dark clouds, here at the edge of the world, with the golds of autumn leaves and greens of grass and sea as far as they could see, it was hard to resist the sense of limitlessness. If their burdens would not leave them, perhaps they could be set aside, if only for an afternoon. Wilhelmina was determined to lighten Alfred’s mood. If only he could see the beauty of the world again, he would break free of the despondency that had gripped him for the last quarter of the year. She waited patiently for him to open conversation, and when she saw that he was not inclined, she ventured lightly, “Isn’t it sublime Lord Alfred? I don’t believe I’ve appreciated autumn’s beauty quite so much before.” 

Alfred replied rather aimlessly, “Yes, Miss Coke, I suppose Nature must have its show before it quits us.” 

Wilhelmina, undeterred by his cynicism, continued “Oh, Lord Alfred! Don’t be so pessimistic. Look here.” She stopped by a large shrub at the edge of the path. “Look at this branch. True, its leaves are finishing their service and will soon return to the earth. But look behind each one. See,” she pointed to the tiny nascent buds along the stem, “for every lost leaf, new life waiting to restore the plant. Spring will come again.”

As she spoke, the sun broke through a hidden opening in the clouds beaming first on her delicate hand, then up onto her face. At once, the spot where they stood was bathed in golden light, making them and their immediate surroundings appear radiant against an incongruous charcoal sky. Alfred followed the light to Wilhelmina’s face. Her expression was soft and gentle while her eyes flashed the mix of courage and apprehension of someone taking a daring chance. She looked different to him, perhaps beautiful. Gazing upon her and feeling the warmth of the sun, Alfred felt lighter. His shoulders began to relax. He took a long breath. Was it possible to feel something good again? He lingered in the thought, knowing he should say something. As he tried to form the words, a gust of wind blew fiercely, closing the hole in the clouds, casting the little spot back into flat shadow. The moment was gone. 

Wilhelmina thought she’d seen a flash of life in Alfred’s eyes before the gust extinguished the ephemeral glow. It had been only a moment, but perhaps her message had gotten through. Now, he looked as mournful as ever, but with a greater distance. She sensed that he would prefer to be alone. “Lord Alfred,” she said, “I’ve become cold and it’s time I checked on my aunt. I am going to return to the carriage and will be pleased to manage by myself. Please stay and enjoy more of this sea air before we depart.”  


“Are you sure?” asked Alfred. 

“Quite,” said Wilhelmina as she turned back, taking in a last look at the sea herself.

Now on his own, Alfred began walking again. He came upon a narrow, rocky trail leading to the very edge of the cliff. He followed it until it stopped with nothing but the precipitous drop and the sea. He remembered the last time he’d peered off such a height – Scotland. He let his mind wander back there, this time not shutting out the memory. He could see Drummond’s every detail, almost hear his voice. How he wished Drummond was there with him now! But he was gone, his body to the earth and his soul to the untouchable heavens. Alfred looked skyward. The clouds were now illuminated with vibrant shades of pink and orange in every direction, the unseen sun setting behind them. The beauty was too much to bear, and Alfred crumbled to his knees, sobbing.

Wilhelmina took the seat across from her aunt in the carriage. “Thank you, Aunt,” she said in a glum tone, “for your patience. Lord Alfred will be a while longer. I became chilled, but I believe he would like to explore the cliffs further. It’s a beautiful sunset is it not?” 

The Duchess looked at her directly, and asked, “Are you surprised to find your adventure did not go as you planned?” 

Wilhelmina, stunned to realize she was so transparent, answered, “No, Aunt, I only wanted to show him there was still loveliness in the world, and now I fear I’ve made things worse instead of better.” 

The Duchess paused, collecting her thoughts, but held her niece’s attention. When she felt clear in her message, she answered, “Don’t be too sure, Wilhelmina. You’ve shown much kindness to Lord Alfred, more than he is likely to expect. It’s clear what your friends mean to you. To cease caring for him wouldn’t suit you, but don’t pretend to understand what you cannot.” She paused to give Wilhelmina space to hear her words, then continued, “You see, it’s a sky like this that makes me miss your uncle. Even after all these years, the ache is there. And this,” she motioned to the clouds, “is too wonderful to have without him. Each one of us will bare losses in our lifetime. If you live to be as old as me, you will bare many. It can be a fearful prospect to leave someone you love behind, and it can be easy to pretend that it’s yours to decide when he is gone. We all must learn to carry our dead lightly in our hearts so that we might live out our lives in grace. The grace comes in time, sometimes with a struggle, but always in time. Lord Alfred must find it on his own. You cannot give it to him.”

Wilhelmina nodded, then asked, “Aunt, did you love Uncle Buccleuch?” 

“Yes,” answered the Duchess, “I loved him,” again, she paused. “but not in the way you want to hear. Wilhelmina, I am going to tell you some things I normally keep quite to myself. It’s time someone gave you proper expectations. Romance,” she narrowed her eyes, “Desire, is not the same thing as love, and much the lesser. I loved your uncle, though by no means right away. We were nearly strangers when we married, and I was practically a child. Those first years were difficult. There was the War, and he was frequently away, though home often enough to keep me with child. I bore the first two out of duty alone. After my second, I was lost, and I despaired greatly. But there was nothing to do but keep going and face up to my duties, as every woman must. I resolved to know my own mind and always to live by my own standards. I took charge of my household and discovered I had courage. When Henry returned from the War, he found a different wife indeed. To my surprise, my strength won his admiration, and he became a steadfast partner to me. We cared for each other. We came to know each other. And we were fortunate. _Desire_ – and I tell you this for your education only – did come. It is a joyful but fickle feeling – it waxes and wanes even in the happiest marriage. The important thing is that we stood by each other whether we were moved to do so or not. Love, Wilhelmina, is an act, not a feeling.”

Wilhelmina quietly took in her aunt’s words. There was much to ponder. The two women sat silently, as the last pink cloud faded to soft grey. “Now,” said the Duchess, “it’s time that we be going.” She motioned to the footman and sent him for Alfred who remained sitting at the edge of the cliff. He returned swiftly, though his posture revealed a weariness. As he boarded the carriage, the women could see in the lingering twilight, his face was red with wind and tears. Without comment, Wilhelmina handed him her handkerchief as he sat down next to her. 

The carriage started forward, the sounds of hooves and wheels enough to fill the silence no one wanted to break, its occupants each encapsulated in solitary reverie, yet taking inexpressible comfort in their shared company. Alfred felt spent. He leaned against the side of the carriage and closed his eyes. Muddled thoughts and memories drifted in and out of his mind. He did not try to rein them in, and soon, at last, he slept a dreamless sleep.

Wilhelmina was relieved to see peace descend upon her friend. She glanced at the Duchess and, seeing her distant look to the horizon, reached over and gently took Alfred’s hand. Perhaps she would never fully understand his sorrow, but she could yet offer kindness. Was this what her aunt meant? Wilhelmina was certainly finished with the Romantic – the Duchess needn’t worry - the events of the past summer had already unmoored her from every notion she had of it, and Drummond’s murder sank any last illusions. Love was indeed something else, or at least something more, but what? Wilhelmina had never considered love in terms of action, nor as something under her authority. She sensed power, revolutionary and slightly terrifying, in the idea, yet it appeared like a strange temple set at the end of a garden shrouded in mist. If she entered, would anyone be there? What would she do if she found herself alone? She had only questions as she looked out into the starless night over the dark sea, unable to see its depths or its reach, only it’s vastness. Her aunt had set her on a course, but she would have to look inward for further direction. Silently, she thanked God for those who loved her, then beseeched Him for guidance. 

The Duchess reflected on her speech. She had covered every point she intended to make but had surprised herself with her willingness to reveal her life with the Duke. She rarely took herself back to those times, all too short in the course of a life, having learned that forward was always the direction of purpose. Thinking of him now filled her with satisfaction and no small amount of longing. She hoped that the women in her care could enjoy the same happiness, Wilhelmina especially. When the last light disappeared from the Western sky, the Duchess returned her attention to the little world inside the carriage. She examined the two young people in front of her. The lovesick, grieving boy. The vexed, disillusioned girl. The peculiar bond between them. The hint of an idea dawned. The solution might well be right in front of her. It would need patience, but she could bide her time. There was no reasoning with souls at war against themselves. Afterall, in a season, they would be years older. Wistfully, she sighed. She had never known youth to end peacefully.

*****************************************************

Alfred woke to a bright sun shining on his face. He was still in the carriage, stretched out across the seat. Someone had helped him out of his coat and tie and covered him in a woolen blanket. Wilhelmina’s shawl was folded up under his head for a pillow. Judging by the angle of the sun, he must have slept thirteen hours or more. He got up, wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and began walking around to the back of the carriage house. The sun had not yet disturbed the morning mist, and besides the soft sounds of the horses and grooms working, all was quiet. He found a pump and helped himself to some water, taking a long drink and splashing it on his face.

A new day. How different he felt after having slept. How clear and tangible the world seemed. He noticed the tattered russet leaves fluttering, the chill of the breeze animating them, small birds hopping in the grass, plucking worms, and making trails in the dew, and the sun rising in a cloudless sky. 

Peace. 

The notion had become so foreign to him that now it felt strange and tentative. He stretched out his arms as though he might touch it. With every sense, he felt the air and the sun bringing him relief he had not dared imagine. He closed his eyes, just for a moment. Gone were the feelings anguish and rage, pleading and madness. He’d poured them out on the cliffs until there was nothing left. In their place was an unadorned sadness, pure and wise, and oddly comforting. He opened his eyes to find the world again alive with all its little purposes and himself in it, unsure what to do next. Again, he started walking – across the meadow and into the wood – without destination, immersed in the tactile forms of nature.

As Alfred walked, his confidence in his state of mind grew as did an awareness that he must confront what had happened. When he felt sure of himself, he took a breath and allowed the memories in. Drummond was gone. Whatever chance they had was over, and whatever they might have been would remain unknown. This was reality, and no amount of pain he could inflict upon himself would bring about a different one. He could live in this world, but he wasn’t yet ready to let go of his dear Drummond. There was no need to hurry. He checked inside his shirt for the black arm band, even though he could feel it securely fastened. For now, he would renew his private mourning and grant his sadness a place of honour. He imagined that after some time, he would need to carry on. Not now, but sometime. 

What then? Alfred realized he was mourning not only for Drummond, but for himself as well. Though surely he would find joy and pleasure again, he would never be the same. He could never again be so carefree, so light-hearted, so reckless. And Drummond would always have a place. Would there ever be another man, or woman for that matter, who could accept less than his whole heart?

Alfred had never thought much about the future, but now, he mourned for two that could never exist. No Drummond, and no going back to those blithe days before love and death upended everything. Now, his mind began to turn on a future more solid and grounded. He wanted more than anything to bare himself and to be received, and to give as much in return. He wanted to share deep and abiding love, to be surrounded by it. Was it possible he wanted to settle down? The thought was too much. His rapacious mind, so eager to light on something new, was ahead of his still-heavy heart. Another time, he told himself as he refocused on this day, this clear sky, these earthy colors. 

Walking now into the open meadow, the autumn wind blew with a chill. Alfred pulled the blanket tighter. The mystery of its origin brought to mind Wilhelmina. Her compassion was unfailing. She always knew just what he needed and offered it with grace rather than inquisition or ceremony. He could only guess how much she and the Duchess knew, but whatever they thought, they kept it to themselves and cared for him just the same. Given that he had been acting like a lunatic and had more than once returned Wilhelmina’s kindness with evasiveness or harsh words, he felt he hardly deserved it. But no matter the state of his wits, she was undeterred. He returned to the carriage feeling deeply grateful. 

The sight of his wrinkled coat and tie reminded him of all he had experienced since the morning before, and the recollection made him tired. As he retrieved them and set off for the house, the energy of the morning faded. One restorative sleep was not enough to erase his weariness, but he did not ask for more. A gentle melancholy was enough for now. 

**************************************************

The weather turned cold, and Wilhelmina found herself restless. She paced around the music room trying to study a new concerto she had ordered for herself. She was determined to learn it but could not force her mind to stay on the page. She could be forgiven for the distraction. In a few short months what she had believed were her greatest ideals and expectations had been upended. Before that fateful summer, she had given little attention to her own thoughts and desires. She’d seen the world as others had instructed and played the role she was assigned, never questioning its fit, always falling short. To be married to a man of stature was all that was required of her, to make him fall in love with her the only task. No one ever told her how to accomplish such a feat, only that it should come naturally to any worthy woman and that all her happiness rested upon it. Thus, she had pictured a simple and perfect love – fairy tale love. Had she paid attention, she would have seen long before now how fraught with difficulty the business actually was. 

With autumn drifting into winter, the prospects of a husband growing perilously dim, and her failure looming imminently, Wilhelmina wondered what was wrong with her. How could she have done everything that was asked of her and yet failed? Why did men fall after trivial beauty and charm when she had real goodness to offer? How could she so often perceive others’ feelings and yet be unable to recognize her own? And why in bloody Hell had she allowed everyone else to decide for her what she was to think? She wished she could be like Queen Victoria or Lady Charlotte and in command of her own fortune. She imagined a world where women maintained their positions by right and did as they pleased, where they were not dangled precariously in need of rescue. There were rumbles of such a world among the radicals, but as far as she could see, it was merely a dream. Her world had rules, written and unwritten, and she possessed no exceptions. She must find happiness within it, for it was not her nature to succumb to cynicism and misery.

Her mind was a mess of thoughts and emotions. She glanced down at her music again. To the untrained eye, a score was a mess too, but with knowledge, it fell into order. It was time she put herself in order and began sorting out her own way of thinking. Again and again, her mind turned on the puzzle of love. In a space beyond words, she sensed love was at the core of her being and the key to understanding herself. She searched her memory for the bedrock wisdom on which to build her own philosophy. Trusted voices came back to her. The rector of the little parish where she grew up preaching Matthew’s gospel, “You shall love thy neighbor as thyself.” Lord Hatton quoting from Adam Smith, “Man naturally desires, not only to be loved, but to be lovely.” Her aunt’s advice, “Love, Wilhelmina, is an act, not a feeling.” Each admonition placed power in her hands. Why had she not seen this before? 

She confronted the old expectations and found them – not herself – wanting. The world expected her to be someone she could never be. People like her mother and certain arrogant lords saw her as foolish and unimportant, at best a middling possession, but she had never really believed it. She could not believe herself a commodity nor love a transaction. More than that, she hated the unholy conflation of love and position and the way it robbed everyone of the freedom to love as they chose. She hated the simple story that showed love in only one dimension. Surely, it had more facets than the most finely cut diamond. Perhaps, it was complex beyond understanding.

She put down the sheet music and caught her blurry reflection in the piano’s lacquer. At once, revelation came clear. She was indeed lovely, and she deserved the best of love. That it might not come to pass, that her world was ordered to give such an opportunity to so few, that she might be required to construct love from nothing, did not make her any less so. Bitterness, though tempting, would destroy love, and she would not abide it. She would never be able to direct another’s heart, nor command, nor buy the love she deserved, but her heart remained full, and, though she might suffer the consequences, no one could stop her from giving love as she pleased. There was no perfect love, only the courage to remain despite imperfection. These things were true, and so long as she possessed them, she could weather any outcome and would never need an earthly savior. 

She broke into a wide smile with tears streaming as, for the first time, she felt in possession of herself. The indeterminate future would come and bring with it sorrow or fortune, but for now, if she was to be Andromeda chained to the rock, she would wail neither for the serpent nor the hero. She would know her own mind, and better still her own heart, and there she would always be free.

With new confidence Wilhelmina sat down at the piano. She reviewed the piece in front of her. She began to play with a vigor, almost an impatience, that she had never given her playing before. The sound was loud and forceful with every discordant mistake ringing out into the hall. When she finally looked up, Alfred was standing in the doorway with an armload of yellow roses and white camellia, the last hurrah of the autumnal garden.

“Lord Alfred!” she exclaimed, surprised and a touch embarrassed. She hadn’t thought anyone would hear her playing and was sure she looked a mess. “What are you doing here?”

“Miss Coke, I’ve, in fact, come to find _you._ ” He made no mention of her appearance and waved in a footman who set a large blue and white chinois vase on the piano then departed. “Don’t stop Miss Coke. It’s quite the interesting piece.” Alfred crossed the room and began placing the flowers in the vase a few at a time. 

“I’ve finished,” Wilhelmina said absently, her mind trying to register what was happening in front of her when it had been so deeply concentrated elsewhere. “I mean, I’m through the piece. I’ve just sat down to it. It needs a lot of work.”

“Don’t we all Miss Coke. Don’t we all. You know, you aren’t the only one who notices people.” He looks at her directly. “You have the strength of a lioness and the grace of a dove. Only fools would ignore it.” Wilhelmina blushed at his words and smiled softly. Then, realizing the compliment must not be the reason for his visit, she looked at him quizzically. Alfred took note and returned to his purpose. Placing the last stem in the arrangement, he said, “I came to thank you for the botany lesson. We may each have our winter to endure, but I hoped these might brighten it.” He gave a warm but firm nod to preclude any further conversation. “I’ll leave you to your practice.” He tapped his hand on the piano and strode out of the room.

Wilhelmina stared at the flowers, taking in their effortless beauty, dwelling on their meaning. She felt a deep satisfaction knowing that she had done well by her friend after all. The just-discovered confidence again swept over her. Alone, she had all that she needed, but to be understood by another gave her an incomparable feeling of warmth. She returned her attention to her music and played the concerto again, this time with fluid elegance, as though she had always known it.

When she was satisfied with her accomplishment, Wilhelmina stood up from the piano, inhaled the heady scent of roses, and went to find pen and paper. She sat down at a desk by a window and began writing two letters she knew would take all the courage she had. The first, and more unpleasant, was to her mother. In it she made clear that she would refuse the proffered governess position. She offered no indication of what she was to do instead. In truth, she did not know. Perhaps Harriet would need someone for her children, or she could sell her best jewelry and set up a shop of some sort in London. She laughed at how ill-prepared she was to design a different life, but no matter, she would do anything but go back home. She sealed the letter and placed it at the edge of the desk.

Wilhelmina looked back at the flowers on the piano. Her pulse quickened as she resolved to take the risk. She put pen to paper:

_Dearest Florence,_

_I think of you often and pray for your comfort in this most tragic time. Know that your sorrow is shared by so many of us, as nothing has been the same at court without your charming Mr. Drummond. As my service here soon may come to an end, I intend to gather the treasures of fond memory. Might I be so bold as to ask you for some memento of our dear friend?_

_Truly yours,  
Wilhelmina_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there you have it - my attempt to explain and find happiness in the end of Series 2. There is just no explaining Series 3 with regard to this plot, but if you want to know what I think happened, read on!
> 
> Historical Notes:
> 
> The Pantechnicon was/is a real place (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pantechnicon_van) that seems to have a facinating history. The painting of Andromeda by Titian was in fact stored there at the time this story takes place.
> 
> In the Victorian Era (and even now) flowers had very specific symbolism. Our dear heros would have been versed in such things and understood their meaning. For the modern reader, here you go: White camellias symbolize admiration; they are also associated with perfection, loveliness, longing, and overcoming. Yellow roses are a classic symbol of friendship, very platonic.
> 
> **************************************
> 
> And finally, if you have read this far and you liked the content, here is my "behind the scenes" gift to you dear reader. I've known many writers who will listen to certain music while writing to get them into their creative place, so I gave it a try. A playlist formed and was refined and edited along with the text. I didn't actually listen while physically writing (way too hard) but on runs, etc. as I contemplated the story and how the characters would reveal themselves. In my own head, it's as much a part of my version of the characters as anything I wrote. If you care to listen, here it is - the songs are available through common services:
> 
> Episode B89 GenX Fangirl Deliciously Angsty Modern Playlist
> 
> PROLOGUE  
> 1\. Desire - Ryan Adams  
> 2\. Fade Into You - Mazzy Star  
> 3\. All I Want Is You - U2  
> ALLY  
> 4\. Art of Almost - Wilco  
> 5\. Yellow Ledbetter - Pearl Jam  
> 6\. The Funeral - Band of Horses  
> 7\. Sorrow - The National  
> INTERLUDE - This Side of Madness on a Cloudy Day in the Fall  
> 8\. Half a World Away - R.E.M.  
> 9\. Under the Milky Way - The Church  
> 10\. Sometimes - James  
> 11\. Hot Knives - Bright Eyes  
> WILS  
> 12.Solitude Standing - Suzanne Vega  
> 13\. You Know Me Well - Sharon Van Etten  
> 14\. I'll Stand by You - The Pretenders  
> 15\. Shake It Out - Florence + The Machine


	2. Auld Lang Syne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's New Year's Eve (post-Series 2 Christmas Special), and Wilhelmina and Alfred are still working through the fallout of their impromptu engagement. Wils is coming into her own even as she can't put down some understandable worries, and Alfred continues to recover a bit like the stock market with its wild ups and downs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die. – Thomas Campbell

CHAPTER 2 – Auld Lang Syne

It was the last night of a dreadful year turned wonderous. Wilhelmina stood at her favourite window watching a gentle twilit snow falling and refreshing the dreamy white that submerged the world in a suspended flood. The gardens appeared as a soft motionless sea, the trees as ghost ships upon it. The scene looked exactly as it had only eight days before, yet her world was entirely changed. As she pondered what had transpired, the sea inside her was not nearly so calm. Its rhythmic and powerful waves were lapping the shores of her mind in an endless cycle. Great swells of relief, serene green-grey with delicate white frills crashed over her and bathed her with their warm and soothing waters. She could scarcely believe that in one unexpected moment her most immediate concerns had vanished, the crimeless sentence she was set to serve commuted, her material future not only secure but bright. She would marry after all, and not just anyone, but Alfred, her friend whom she loved. How she wished she could still the tide and drown in the joyful surge, but, inevitably, the glad and hopeful wave withdrew, leaving rocky shards of worry on her shores. 

She knew Alfred had proposed on impulse, though he had assured her of the seriousness of his intention at least a dozen times since then. Still, she wondered if he was really ready. Had he taken enough time to put his grief to rest? And what would it mean to enter into a marriage rising from the ashes of another love, a marriage founded on such secret complication? She wondered what negotiations would be required to keep them both happy. Her brow furrowed as she thought through these questions over and over, frustrated that she could not land upon an answer. 

She was confident, at least, that there was love between them, not passion precisely, but a mature love born of a shared understanding that need not be spoken. There were times she felt she could see Alfred’s soul. If only she could see inside his mind. Then again, why couldn’t she? Why fret and guess when nothing but her own trepidation stopped her from seeking the answers she required? He would understand her need to know where she stood. Oh, the delicacy of such a conversation! She would have to have faith in the unqualified nature of their love and more courage even than she had relied upon thus far. 

_Love and courage._ Each supported and magnified the other. Woven together, they made a sturdy raft, on which she could navigate the restless sea, accepting both the joy and the fear at once. The image conferred a level of tranquility and patience. There would be plenty of time to sort everything out. She would be gentle, but she would insist upon honesty between them. She contemplated whether she knew of any women who made such demands. Victoria perhaps. She was certainly not the queen, but she was sailing in too dangerous a sea to care for convention now. 

“Wilhelmina,” her aunt called, interrupting her tumultuous reverie. “I would prefer my tea hot.” The Duchess sat up and made an expectant face. Wilhelmina scanned the landscape again, taking a deep breath. She resolved to set preoccupation aside. In only a few hours, Victoria and Albert were to host a grand ball for Hogmanay, and all of London society was invited. The news of her engagement to Alfred had travelled quickly and was already a topic of great speculation. The interest was unavoidable, so she would be expected to play a greater role in the pageantry of the court, allaying hints of scandal and ensuring that not too much attention was diverted from Her Majesty. She sat down and began sipping her tea. 

“Doubt does not become a bride,” the Duchess admonished. “You may lay it to rest with me. Tonight, you must show nothing of the sort." 

“I am prepared for tonight, Aunt. I just do not know if I am prepared for what comes after it.” 

“Prepared? You need be prepared only to bear up. Every marriage, indeed every life, will have its difficulties. They come as a surprise to those who enter into the contract too young and full of false perfection. You have the great advantage of knowing what it is you face. You are a strong woman, and you have everything you need. No obstacle is insurmountable so long as you remember it.” Her words were stern, but her eyes conveyed a love and care that heartened Wilhelmina. Before she could respond, the conversation was cut short by the sound of hurried footsteps. 

A voice called from the hallway, “Miss Coke?” It was Mrs. Skerret whose services Victoria had offered for the ball. “Miss Coke, I was told I could find you here. I know it’s still early, but it’s time to get you into your gown.” 

Wilhelmina brightened. “Oh, Skerrett, thank you” she replied, “I’m terribly excited! I’ve never in my life worn anything quite so daring. I hope it has not been too much extra work for you." 

“My pleasure ma’am. Such a delightful time to be engaged!” 

“Indeed,” affirmed Wilhelmina, as they headed for the stairs. 

In her room, Wilhelmina stood in front of the glass, feeling as radiant as she looked. She had always shied away from a colourful wardrobe, hoping she would blend into her surroundings, but not tonight. Tonight would bring the attentions of every court follower and a hundred well-wishing acquaintances, and she might as well come into her own. She chose a rich velvet in a deep peacock blue with lustrous olive brocade panels set around the full skirt. There was no coincidence in the colour’s resemblance to ring Alfred had given her but no pretense either, for she found it turned her eyes from dull slate to deep blue and brought out the coppery tones in her hair. Mrs. Skerret convinced her to dare a neckline that swooped below her collar bones and draped gently across her shoulders. Around her neck, she wore a triple strand of pearls and in her hair a dainty tiara her aunt had given her, saying it seemed silly for a woman of her age. 

As Mrs. Skerret left to attend to Victoria, she passed Harriet who, with a perfunctory knock, entered the room. Her eyes widened in amazement upon seeing Wilhelmina. “How lovely you look!” she exclaimed. “Do you feel ready?” 

“I think so. I must admit, I’m nearly sick with nerves.” 

“I thought you might be. That’s why I brought this.” Harriet produced a delicate crystal flask and a couple of miniature goblets. She filled them each with brandy and raised hers in a silent toast. The two women sipped and eased into conversation, passing the time until the moment they were summoned downstairs. 

******************************* 

In a different room several corridors away, with keen awareness, Alfred tied the black arm band for the last time. Tomorrow would bring a new year, and the moment had come to carry on. The ritual no longer dredged up pain. It was a gentle and quiet act of love, and he knew now that the love could continue without the mourning. He took out the locket Wilhelmina gave him and turned it over in his hand. Somehow, its physical presence made it easier to reach a peace. He opened it and ran his thumb, lightly as possible, over the plaits of hair. He closed his eyes and remembered. After a while, he opened them to see the words drawn on the opposite panel. The inscription was meant to honour the love he and Drummond shared, yet he could not separate it from that of Wilhelmina. He looked back and forth between the sides of the locket. In his hand lay his past and his future, inextricably joined. Such strange harmony. He could not quite get his mind to articulate why it felt acceptable to him. Surely, any outside observer would find such a conflation senseless, but to Hell with it, there would be no outside observers. He wondered if the accord was too good to be true, if it could last. It was a question only time could answer. 

The clock chimed its reminder that time indeed never ceased to steal the present moment and replace it with the unknowable future. Alfred closed the locket, stroked the silver once more, and placed it in the ebony box, intricately carved with eternal knots, he had commissioned for just this purpose. In it were also the letter he had written just before that horrible night and Wilhelmina’s handkerchief that served as the locket’s wrapper. Tomorrow, he would add the arm band to the little pile. He closed the lid of the box, locked it with a tiny key, and hid the key in a secret drawer of his desk. Taking in a long breath, he patted the top of the box and turned his attention to dressing for the ball. 

His dress uniform had been hung on the front of the large Regency armoire. He was glad he didn’t have to think about what to wear, that he could look both dashing and utterly boring at the same time, and he was grateful that his individuality would not be on display for the throngs. He was already bracing himself for the attention he and Wilhelmina would receive – fawning compliments, unsolicited advice, and prying questions from drunken courtiers who let curiosity get the better of them. He wished he could protect Wilhelmina from all of it, yet he trusted she could hold her own after so many years at court. From what she hinted, she was planning to face her new role head on with a splendid gown meant to match society’s fascination. He was curious to see her in it, and the thought lightened his mood. He pulled on his boots, smoothed his hair a final time and went to wait for her in the main passage near the ballroom. 

****************************************

The lighthearted giggles of Wilhelmina and Harriet preceded them as they approached the staircase. “I must thank you Harriet,” Wilhelmina said with a smile. “You’ve encouraged me. I dare say, this ball might just be a merry time after al…” she trailed off as she spotted Alfred at the bottom of the stairs. He was leaning casually against the banister, looking resplendent in his dress reds. As she locked eyes with him, Harriet leaned in, whispered good luck into her ear, then gave her a playful little push. 

Alfred broke into a nonchalant smile, but his eyes were wide with wonder. He was truly stunned and more than pleased to see his bride-to-be looking so bold. It suited her. Becoming aware of his expression, Wilhelmina blushed and scrunched her shoulders up to her ears. Looking at Alfred with eyes both timid and confident, she waited for his reaction. “You look positively magnificent!” he exclaimed, to which she instantly relaxed. She knew it was true but felt extra delight at pleasing him. She extended her hand so that they might join the queue to enter the ballroom with the rest of the court. 

The spacious hall with its high ceilings was gleaming with all the court’s finery, flowing champagne, and brilliant dancing. As expected, Alfred and Wilhelmina found themselves often the center of attention. The guests were abuzz with intriguing reports of a surprise engagement within the royal household, at the palace on Christmas no less. Though they did not relish the interest, they dutifully indulged it, offering warm acceptances of congratulations and confirmations of the happy news. They were separated by differing obligations almost from the start but would exchange affectionate smiles or the briefest silly faces when they spotted each other across the room. 

Most of their well-wishers were quickly satisfied, but anyone paying real attention would notice that their eyes betrayed the calm determination of those who have reached the other side of crisis. Lady Emma Portman, for one, read the steeled look in Alfred’s eyes as she approached him like a curious cat. “My congratulations, Lord Alfred,” she purred, keeping her smile bright while her eyes and her tone dripped with skepticism. 

“I thank you Lady Portman,” responded Alfred, “for yours and, I would assume, for the seventy-five surplus I have received this evening.” He nodded toward her in admonishment. 

“Well your bride appears to have met the challenge,” she replied, retreating to firmer territory though not ceding her unspoken claim. “She looks quite the part,” she continued gesturing to Wilhelmina who was in enthusiastic conversation with two unfamiliar women. 

“Lady Portman do take care not to fall prey to underestimation. It would not become you. Now, if you will excuse me.” He threw a look indicating he would spend no more time on the subject and stepped away in the direction of Victoria. 

Evening drifted into night, the party rising to its climax. Wilhelmina was telling the tale of Alfred’s proposal – the picture-perfect public one of course, as they had agreed that the original was theirs alone to safeguard and to cherish – for the eleventh time when she heard the call of “Midnight!” She looked around and could find Alfred nowhere. Just then, she felt a rush of warmth behind her and a kiss on the spot where her cheekbone met her ear. She jumped and let out a yelp before she could contain it. As she turned around, heart racing, Alfred was beaming at her, clearly quite pleased with himself. Harriet and Ernest stood nearby stifling their laughter. Wilhelmina flushed and squinted one eye in mock anger. Then the little band of cheerful friends joined the tight circle that included Victoria and Albert. 

The bells rang out, and they linked arms to take part in the ancient ritual of Auld Lang Syne. The crowd of revelers, the grandeur of the ballroom, the glittering trappings of festivity all faded into the background. There was a momentary silent pause, then with the low, somber first notes of the song, the mood abruptly shifted to one of intimacy and reflection. The words, so poignant, stirred every emotion in Alfred and Wilhelmina. 

_Should auld acquaintance be forgot,  
and never brought to mind?  
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,  
and days of auld lang syne?_

They held together tightly, willing each other to get through the song without breaking down. Neither could hold back their tears, though looking around, they were not the only ones. 

The song ended with an awkward solemnity not at all befitting the occasion. Prince Ernest quickly stepped in. Wiping a tear from his own eye and producing a self-conscious smile, he proclaimed, “What a sorry lot we are! Come! Let us drink. A toast to all we have lost and all we have gained and all we have coming to us.” He raised his glass then downed it in a gulp. The group responded likewise. Alfred held tight to Wilhelmina’s hand as though it was the one thing keeping him together. After a few interminable seconds, the musicians struck up a waltz, and various couples broke off to enjoy the curious public intimacy of the dance. Alfred, never letting go, found a table for their coups and bowed to Wilhelmina in invitation. He held her close and looked at her with a mix of sadness and wonder. She returned his gaze with eyes of deep understanding. They said nothing while they shared everything. 

When the dance was over, Wilhelmina pulled Alfred to an exterior door and inclined her head toward it. Alfred obliged and led her through. The frozen air was thin and clear but for the smoke of London’s chimneys. Above, a velvet sky of deepest indigo held thousands of bright stars, some beaming resolutely as stationary sentinels of a limitless universe, others twinkling their celebration of the timeless passing of time. On the grand balcony, fur blankets had been laid over the balustrades for guests retreating to the air and quiet of the outdoors. Alfred placed one around Wilhelmina’s shoulders. “I love you,” he said, looking directly into her eyes. She blushed and for a second became shy before reclaiming her confidence and summoning her courage. She straightened her shoulders and took both of Alfred’s hands in hers. She looked back at him directly. 

“You don’t have to give him up, you know. I would never ask that of you.” 

He searched her face and found she was sincere. There was not a trace of jealousy in her. “What have I done to deserve you?” he asked with wonder. 

“You bothered to see me Alfred,” was her reply. He looked at her quizzically. “It may seem a small thing to you, but to me, it is everything. When I am with you, I do not feel less than myself. I believe I could give voice to any desire, and you would not scoff or dismiss me out of hand.” 

“And what is your desire my darling? I will give you anything. Indeed, I want to spoil you.” 

Wilhelmina considered his offer a moment, and deciding that it was not mere flattery or flirtation, answered, “What I want more than anything, Alfred, is to live by our own rules.” He raised a surprised eyebrow. “Oh, I am not saying I want to flout the regulations of our time entirely – I do not wish to live as friendless outlaws to society – but within our union, I want to invent something better than what has been handed down, to seek our pleasures and suit ourselves.” 

Alfred took in her unexpected words and considered what they might mean. Possibilities lit up in his mind. He felt a thrilling rush as though a breath of oxygen had touched old near dormant embers within him. Could it be that this woman in front of him cared not for convention? Might she wish to play a version of his game, and perhaps revive his spirit? A flash of mischief crossed his face as he glanced quickly around, for show more than anything, then pulled Wilhelmina into a most inappropriate kiss. 

******************************************* 

The first morning of the new year dawned in a clear sky. A slight bluster set the sparkling, snow-covered tree branches to dancing with the crystalline light that eased its way through Wilhelmina’s window, gently tickling her face. She stirred slightly, her languid consciousness still loosely grasping a pleasant dream. Sensations belonging to the waking world crept in to issue invitations. She became aware of the warmth of her bed clothes, the quiet rustle of the tip-toeing maid, and the sweet, sensual scent of jasmine, not present when she went to sleep, now permeating the air. 

She stretched her arms above her head and wiggled her toes, turning to sit up. She opened her eyes to search for the source of the mysterious scent. Across the room on the small writing desk was a large footed silver bowl brimming with the graceful curves of fuchsia callas. Tendrils of snowy jasmine cascaded over the sides, and bunches of violets in vivid amethyst, each tied with a streamer of white satin ribbon, filled whatever gaps might have been left if not for their presence. Beside the bowl was a small folded note. Her hands were on it before she had a chance to catch her breath. She held it as she read the slanting script. 

_Darling Wils,  
It is to be my delight to come first through your door.  
Happy New Year, my love!  
Yours,  
Alfred_

Wilhelmina smiled and, without intending to, brought the note to her heart. A spark of wicked delight gave her a shiver before a warm, serene feeling spread over her. She bent down to inhale the sweet fragrance as fully as she could, letting it go to her head. Then she flopped on the end of the bed, reading the note again, running her fingers over the charming pet name, and staring at the flowers. For a moment, she did not know what to do, as it occurred to her that she had never been the object of such affection. She wondered how Alfred had managed the splendid gift. It was one thing to come by blooms in the season, but in the middle of winter! Clearly, he was making a tremendous effort to give her a glimpse of romance. 

The careless thought unlatched a trap door in her mind, and before she could stop herself, she plunged into her now familiar litany of worries. She jumped off the bed and began busily readying herself for breakfast, fussing with her jewelry and brushing her hair. She turned to ring for the lady’s maid and again caught sight of the magnificent flowers. _Why, she thought, why can’t I just enjoy it?_ She stopped and reminded herself of her resolution to speak openly with Alfred. "Love and courage," she whispered. 

***************** 

Alfred sat by the fire in the drawing room, a newspaper in one hand and a warm, fragrant cup of tea in the other. It was still quite early, and as far as he could tell, none of the other members of the household were stirring. Finding himself alone, he had taken the liberty of putting his feet up on a low table. He felt at ease. The first morning of the new year had dawned bright. It felt symbolic. He had gotten through the night before, not without trial, but he had gotten through. Indeed, he had persevered through everything that came before, and now a life of new possibilities stretched before him. 

Thoughts of Wilhelmina displaced his absent-minded reading. She was his harbour in the tempest. That alone was enough to make him love her, but now he was beginning to see her in the light of the future, what she might become, what they could become together. In her performance at the ball – she seemed to have found pleasure in charming the crowd while giving them nothing of the truth – and in her words to him alone, she had revealed a sense of quiet subversion that made him delightfully curious. He wondered if she was waking up now, if she liked the flowers he had arranged to sneak into her room. 

As if in answer to the silent question, she appeared in the doorway. She gazed at him for a moment, not entering, as if making a sort of assessment. Alfred jumped to his feet. “Good morning my darling!” he called, opening his arms in invitation. She entered the room and came to take his hands. He pulled her in and kissed her lightly on the mouth. 

“I awoke to the loveliest surprise,” she said, looking into his eyes. “However did you manage it?” 

“I have my ways,” he replied, clearly without intention to reveal his sources. “Happy New Year.” He dropped the words on her softly, saying more with the way his hand held the small of her back. He lingered in the moment before giving her a quick squeeze and clapping his hands together. His expression shifted to one of action. “Now,” he began, “before we go into breakfast, I have something to ask you.” Wilhelmina raised her eyebrows to indicate her interest. “How would you like to come with me to Plas Newydd next week? I am quite eager to introduce you to my family." 

“Alfred, I would be quite pleased, but won’t it be seen as terribly improper?” 

“Not necessarily. If the Duchess of Buccleuch wants an audience with the Marquess of Anglesey, I don’t know who would stand in the way.” He threw her an impish look. 

“I see. And you think Aunt Buccleuch will go along with it?” 

“I already took the liberty of inquiring with her. She asked for armour to go in against a house of Whigs, but she agreed.” 

“Splendid then!” Wilhelmina leaned in for another kiss but stopped short, hearing footsteps and the sound of someone feigning a cough behind her. She whirled around to see Ernest closely followed by Harriet. They looked as though they had more than drunk their fill the night before and had not slept. Perhaps temptation had gotten the better of them. 

Ernest approached, kissed Wilhelmina’s hand, and shook Alfred’s. “A joyous New Year to you both,” he proclaimed. Turning to Alfred, he inclined his head and smirked. “I do apologize for the interruption,” he said in his clueless way. Alfred gave Ernest a pointed look but kept his carefree demeanor as he deftly turned the conversation away from himself. 

Harriet came over and laid a hand on Wilhelmina’s arm, pulling her out of earshot of the men. “I must congratulate you on your triumph last evening,” she declared with pride. 

Wilhelmina blushed. “I never imagined a silly dress would make such a difference. I find it terribly amusing that people I know I’ve met before came up to me as though they’ve never been introduced.” 

“Society people are such fickle creatures.” Harriet rolled her eyes. “Life within their gaze can be brutal. You were quite clever in handling them, and I don’t think that has to do with the garment so much as the wearer.” She nodded her head and smiled warmly. 

“We should be heading in,” Alfred announced, motioning for the other three to go in front of him. They paraded into the dining room which was festooned elegantly with fresh boughs of pine, cedar, holly, and box. They waited for the rest of the royal family and household to arrive and then were seated. Footmen brought great platters of English breakfast, and the party ate heartily. It would be among their last meals together as just this particular group. There would be a few more dinners and receptions, one last big party for Twelfth Night, and then they would disperse to visit missed family and check on their various estates and realms. For those returning, it would be a holiday until the change of government was complete and Parliament recalled. For the duchesses and Wilhelmina, it would be the end of their service. 

Wilhelmina glanced around the table. Victoria and Albert looked pleased and seemed at peace with their troublesome elders. Aunt Buccleuch was perched on her chair in the center of the long table as though it were any other day, and Ernest and Harriet were exchanging intimate glances. Alfred was next to her, appearing more light-hearted than she could remember him being in a long time, allowing his free hand to find her knee now and again. She was pleased and relieved. Perhaps it really was the start of something new. For a glad and tranquil hour, they feasted on the happy bonds of friendship and the optimism of beginning, but the past would not – not then nor ever – leave them be so easily. 

When the meal was finished, Victoria pulled Alfred and Wilhelmina aside and produced a small scroll from behind a lavish spray of pine and holly. “Last night, when we were singing,” she began, “the sorrow on your faces reminded me that our number was too few. How difficult it is to lose our compatriots when we are still so young, and how bittersweet to recall the memory.” 

Wilhelmina felt her stomach sink. She nodded in agreement as she took Alfred’s trembling hand. She glanced at him, checking for the hint of tears she knew would be there. He looked at Victoria in shock for a split second before hiding his pained expression with a pointed stare at the scroll in her hand. Victoria picked up the cue. “You will know, I am not without sentiment. When we were in Scotland last summer, I made some drawings of our party.” She paused to untie the silk ribbon and roll out the parchment. “I thought you might like to have this one of Mr. Drummond. I dare say it’s quite a good likeness.” 

It was not a boast. The likeness was extraordinary. It was not much more than a sketch, but it perfectly captured in sepia ink the deep, bright eyes, the playful grin, the mix of seriousness, confidence, and mischief that formed the very picture of eternal youth. At the bottom of the page, she had signed, 

_May auld acquaintance never be forgot. ~ Victoria R._

Alfred stared at the page, stunned and quiet. Looking back was the image of the man he had not seen in more than half a year, a face he thought he would never again see. A thousand thoughts flew through his mind, none coming to the surface. Memories of that trip, that time, flashed by. Victoria must have been sketching on that last day once the tumult of her disappearance had passed. She would have considered her subject casually without thought to any future where the graceful curves and jaunty hatches were all that was left. He loved how she had rendered Drummond in ideal form – the side of himself he presented to her – and that there were no signs of the darkness and brooding only Alfred knew. He wanted to reach across and trace his fingers over every line, but some vague sensibility held him back. Instead he brought his hand to the bottom corner of the page and held it delicately as he might hold a baby or a bomb. 

Wilhelmina leaned closer to him, feeling the familiar urge to protect him mixed with a novel and terrible awkwardness. Clearly, Victoria now considered them as one and had no idea the depth of feeling her gift might stir. Thinking quickly, Wilhelmina caught Victoria’s eye and made as animated an expression as she could muster. “How very kind of you Ma’am!” she gushed, “It is a brilliant rendering, and we shall cherish it. It will be the very first artwork to grace our new house and such a fine memento of my time as one of your ladies.” Wilhelmina paused. She was out of things to say before appearing ridiculous, and she hoped Victoria would latch on to some bit of her prattling to continue the conversation and thus buy Alfred more time to compose himself. She pressed her fingers into Alfred’s palm in silent communication of both support and prompting. 

Victoria smiled her appreciation but did not fall into conversation. She turned her gaze to Alfred with a quizzical expression. “Lord Alfred?” she compelled. Alfred looked up, still somewhat dazed. Wilhelmina turned to him also, her eyes silently pleading for him to return to their company. The silent support was not lost on Victoria. “I hope I have not upset you. You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.” 

“No Ma’am,” he stammered before returning to himself, the look in his eye switching instantly to its usual combination of warmth and keen perception. “I was merely struck by the quality of the likeness. You are indeed a brilliant artist Ma’am.” 

“I am pleased you like it Lord Alfred.” She took back the parchment, rolled it again into a tight scroll, replaced the ribbon, then handed it back to him. Sensing the need for a change in subject, she said to Wilhelmina, “You mentioned a new house. Have you found a place to set up?” 

“Not yet Ma’am. There have been only bare minutes to think of it.” She looked at Alfred as though the question of what would come next had only just entered her mind. 

“I suppose we will need to do something about that,” he replied, placing his arm around her waist and looking at her affectionately. 

Victoria took note of the peculiar openness hanging in the air. It stirred her curiosity. She thought back to when she and Albert were just beginning, to all of the things they needed to sort out. How much more there must be to settle when an engagement is not a long time in coming, plotted and planned by families with vested interests. An idea came to her. “You must have so much to do. Know that you can stay here as long as you need,” she directed her words at Wilhelmina before turning back to them both with a sprightly glint in her eye. “Now, I have a favor to ask. I am quite determined to know all I can about this new administration before everyone returns to London. I’d rather like to get ahead of Russell and Palmerston. Tomorrow, I am going to call on Wellington, and I would like for the two of you to accompany me.” 

“It would be our pleasure ma’am.” Alfred responded. He nodded agreeably but could not entirely keep the puzzlement out of his face. 

Victoria ignored his expression. “It’s settled then,” she affirmed as she turned to join Albert who was beckoning her from across the next room. Alfred and Wilhelmina gave a perfunctory bow and curtsey and were left alone. They held back, out of the view of the others. 

“How peculiar,” said Wilhelmina curiously, “Whatever could she need to know so urgently on the second of January? And why not summon the Duke here?” 

“One never knows,” replied Alfred, “sometimes I think she just likes to prove that she can. I hope you won’t mind the errand. It can be hours of just standing around.” 

“I won’t mind.” Wilhelmina turned to look directly at him giving a warm and open smile. He returned the smile, but his eyes betrayed the powerful emotions still swirling within him. “Are you quite alright?” she asked, reaching to stroke his arm down to the hand holding the scroll. 

His eyes again became watery as he pulled her into an embrace, laying his head on her shoulder and taking care not to crush the parchment. “I am,” he said. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Floriography
> 
> In the Victorian Era (and even now) flowers had very specific symbolism. Our dear heros would have been versed in such things and understood their meaning. For the modern reader, here you go:
> 
> Callas, on New Year’s mean "you are the most beautiful girl I know"; any other time they are a coded message of sexual desire, particularly if purple, pink represents admiration (so fuchsia is a bit of a two for one)
> 
> White Jasmine says "Allow me to wish a happy new year to the cleverest and most amiable young woman I know."
> 
> Violets convey a wish for a Happy New Year, the addition of a white ribbon conveys hope that the new year is better than the last


	3. All Laid Bare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred grapples with the effects of seeing the portrait of Drummond.  
> In Wellington's garden, Alfred and Wilhelmina have a frank conversation (kinda, sorta - it's Victorian-speak after all).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The difference in a tragedy and a comedy is not the amount or degree of sadness but where the story ends. This chapter is dedicated to everyone who has reached the point in life where one understands some things cannot be fixed, some dreams go unrealized, and some ideals remain out of reach or bear too high a cost, yet chooses comedy over tragedy, seeking happiness however one can.

Alfred wanted more than anything for his words to be true, but the shock of seeing Drummond’s likeness had thrown him more than he realized. He slept fitfully that night. He had retired late and had had too much to drink. He had laid the portrait out on the desk with the ebony box on one corner and his empty glass on another. He had stared at it for he did not know how long. When he felt his eyes aching and his head pounding, he stumbled into bed and began drifting in and out of dreams. They were restless and interrupted by interminable minutes of lying awake. Once, he got up, unable to keep his mind off the portrait, thinking if he took another glance, he could be satisfied. He lit a candle and stared at it again. He could not turn away, and against what he had meant to do, he sank down in the chair by the desk, leaned his elbow on the blotter, and rested his forehead on the tips of his fingers and thumb, which he used to massage his temples. _This is how it will be_ , he thought. Never-ending love, never-ending pain, something to get used to, to live with rather than through, a peace to be won over and over again.  


He snuffed the candle and returned to bed. The image blazed behind his closed eyes. The weary conclusion repeated. He began to feel an edge of resentment. After so many months of bleak darkness, he had managed to find a place of hope. He carried on as best he could. Was that not enough?  


For a moment, he considered taking all of the reminders and shoving them away, deep in some trunk where they would not be visible, but the thought stabbed with regret and guilt. No, he must learn to hold two things at once. He would never be without the loss, it was a part of him now. He had accepted this before, but such acceptance was easier in sorrow than in hope. Now, he was planning his future. Surely, he had every right to it and any joy it might bring. He was only thirty years old. So many days lay ahead of him. He could not fill them all with longing for something that could never be. He wanted to get back to the sense of possibility so abundant in the morning. He tried to conjure it, and in directing his mind thus, he drifted into a bright, nonsensical dream place where there were children – his children – and an old ruined house in which they were seeking something they could not find. The dream was neither pleasant nor frightening, but it preyed upon his nerves.  


He woke again feeling agitated. He glanced at the clock. It was just past five. One could call that morning, though in the depths of winter, it was still pitch-black outside. He decided to get up. He could stand the stillness no longer. Absent any conscious plan, he dressed for riding. He crept out through the residential passages and down to the kitchen. The staff there were already lively and hard at work preparing vegetables and stock and baking the days breads. The smell of yeast and spices filled the air. Alfred approached one of the young cooks and asked for a flask of coffee and a couple of buns. The cook obliged. Alfred thanked him and took the breakfast to the stables. There he sat casually on a low bench with his knees spread apart and his elbows resting on them. He ate indelicately, the way of men in the field, while a groom readied his horse. The staff paid him no mind. By now they were used to whatever odd behavior he brought with him when he needed to go riding alone.  


Upon his horse, Alfred lowered his hat against the bitter cold. He set off in the blackness into the streets of London. He pretended he did not know where he was going, that the decision had not been made. A right turn here, past the park, straight down that way, across the Thames, and through Greenwich. He rode the better part of an hour telling himself it was aimless, forcing himself to think of mundane things – the designs of the streetlamps, the patterns of the cobbles, the occasion glow in a window. He resolved to turn back several times, always at the next intersection, but then that place would not be right, and he would keep on. He rode until he arrived at the ancient stone arch marking the entrance to the church yard. He hesitated there long enough to commit to the decision he made the moment he got out of bed.  


He entered, secured his horse, and began walking through the frozen snow. Deep blue light reflected off the wintry sheen, providing just enough contrast to make out the outlines of the headstones. He looked up to see grey light on the horizon. Scanning the scene, he could see the tall summer grasses had gone to seed and were beaten down by the winter weather, bent over in unnatural shapes, affixed to the ground by icy drifts. The bare trees in the distance loomed with craggy silhouettes. Footprints marked the snow, mingled and overlapping from the place he entered, separating in lonely trails marking so many somber beginnings to the new year. Halfway to the church his own trail broke off and his feet alone marked the path to Drummond’s grave. He stopped in front of its shocking form. It jutted starkly out from the ground in perfect plumb, the edges were sharp, and it was unmarked by the soot, minerals, lichen, and moss that would gather about it in the years to come. The garish newness stood out from among the other graves, which bore the signs of time and nature’s care.  


Since the burial, Alfred had not come back. He hated to think of Drummond here, spiritless. It was not him, this dull, dumb matter, no different from the cold stone or the frozen soil. But he was not here for Drummond anyway. He had come to prove to himself the finality, to feel his own blood and breath still moving in the face of it. He knelt down beside the stone, snow melting into the knee of his breeches. He scraped the ice from off the top, then took off his glove so that he might trace his fingers over the engraved name. Without expecting to, he began to speak, a startling and uncontrolled edge of anger in his tone. “You left,” he charged at the lifeless gashes that formed the letters. “You left. And what am I to do?” As he said this, he felt someone watching. He looked up to see a child staring at him from another corner of the yard. He met the child’s eyes before looking up to see if he was accompanied. With him was a woman, well-dressed, in a long velvet-trimmed cloak. He thought he recognized her as the wife of Baron Someone-or-Another, but she was out of place without any reason he knew of to be here. She saw that her child was staring and turned him away. She knew better than to intrude on those who came in the cold, secret darkness of the early morning. Alfred looked away. She too would have her privacy. In a lowered voice he continued, pleading, “You must understand. There is more for me. I can have some measure of happiness.” There was no response, only the echo of his own words in his ears. This is what he had come for, to demand permission from himself.  


He bowed his head and allowed the words to penetrate his psyche. When he was sure he meant it, he accepted them and felt satisfied. He got up to leave, but something pulled him back, a waft of uncertainty that Drummond had not somehow heard him. Though it seemed useless, he leaned down and kissed the top of the stone. “I am not angry with you,” he whispered, “You bear no fault. I will love you and carry you with me always.” He ran his bare hand along the curved surface, letting his fingers leave only as he walked away. He forced himself not to look over his shoulder as he made his way back to the trodden path. He passed the woman and her child and exchanged a kind and knowing look. Should they meet again, there would be no mention of this encounter.  


The sun was up now behind a veil of clouds, and the city was beginning to come alive. Alfred left the somber world of the church yard, and feeling the warmth of his horse, realized he had become terribly cold. He thought it odd he had not noticed before. He rode quickly in the direction of his club. There he could warm up, get a proper breakfast, and some sleep. He was exhausted, and the day was only just beginning. The queen’s sudden need to see Wellington could prove tedious. At least she had requested Wilhelmina’s attendance too. Perhaps they would have a few minutes for conversation. He was still intrigued by what she had said at the ball and was now more eager than ever to place some things in the future that might serve to pull him toward it.

*********************

The unmarked carriage pulled up to Apsley house promptly at 2:00. A distant sun slanted against the building, giving it a stark appearance, and adding to its stately aspect. Patchy snow remained on the lawn and shrubbery, remnants of yesterday’s wonderland. Wellington stood in front to greet them and brought them directly into the gallery. He and Victoria stepped to the center of the long hall. Alfred and Wilhelmina hung back nearer the door. Wilhelmina looked up at the tremendously high ceilings, taking in the grandeur of the room. She felt nervous. Alfred had said it could be hours of waiting. She wondered if they would have a moment to speak with one another. She had so much on her mind to discuss, none of it suitable for public conversation.  


Alfred kept his eyes on the queen. Wellington was asking her something and appeared somewhat cross. Undoubtedly, he wanted to know the meaning of the urgent visit. Alfred saw that Victoria answered with a nearly imperceptible jerk of her head in his direction. Wellington’s eyes followed then darted back just as quickly. After a few more interchanges, Wellington stepped to the side and turn to face Alfred and Wilhelmina. He gestured to summon them over. Alfred took Wilhelmina’s arm to lead her over then stood at attention. Wellington reached out to lay a kiss on Wilhelmina’s hand and gave Alfred the signal to be at his ease. He looked at the two of them saying warmly, “I understand congratulations are in order. I am pleased to offer them.”  


“Thank you, Duke,” replied Wilhelmina for them both.  


Wellington received the thanks then continued, “Seeing as my advice is better suited to matters of government, I shall take Her Majesty to the library to discuss the new administration privately. Lord Alfred, I think you will find this house quite secure. You are welcome to consider yourselves off duty. There is a fire in the Portico Room, and the paths in the garden have been cleared should you wish to take some fresh air.”  


“As you wish Sir. Ma’am?” he turned to be sure of Victoria’s blessing.  


“You are excused Lord Alfred. Miss Coke,” she answered in a formal tone entirely contrasting to her pleased expression. Alfred and Wilhelmina backed out of the gallery and were escorted to the Portico Room, which indeed had a roaring fire and a view out to the stone terrace and garden beyond. A footman appeared offering sherry, which they accepted before taking seats on oval-backed chairs upholstered in embroidered gold chintz.  


When the servants were out of earshot, Alfred lifted his glass, examining it with mock curiosity, and said with a wry smile, “Ah-ha,” drawing out the sound, “we are to be the objects of conspiracy.” Wilhelmina looked at him puzzled. “Don’t you see,” he took a drink and looked at her, “Her Majesty may very well be doing reconnaissance on Russell and Palmerston – she wouldn’t waste the opportunity – but she’s arranged for us to be waiting alone.”  


Wilhelmina’s face flushed with what she hoped was delighted surprise rather than horror. “I see,” she said tentatively. Her opportunity had arrived sooner than she expected.  


“I supposed we should have some things to work out,” Alfred offered, looking at her with affection. “Have you thought of how you would like to do it?”  


“There hasn’t been time,” she stalled, “what with the ball and everything.” Wilhelmina sipped her glass of sherry, wishing it were something stronger. Fear was rising biliously in her chest, but it was no match for the urgency she felt for getting the answers she needed. She searched Alfred’s face. He seemed quite contented, but as she stared a moment too long, she saw concern spring from behind his eyes. He tilted his head in a silent question. She could put it off no longer. The conversation she had been planning, even as she dreaded it, was going to happen now. She glanced around the room, checking for hovering servants. She could not feel assured they would not appear at any moment. She stared into the fire. It was too hot. The room felt too close. She was procrastinating while Alfred looked ever more worried. She felt feverish with dread and urgency, yet she could not bring herself speak openly here inside Wellington’s house. Looking around the room again, she lit on the French doors leading to the terrace. She tensed her muscles and gripped the arms of the chair. _Love and courage_ , she repeated to herself. Then, with a decided shift from hesitation to action, she spoke. “Alfred, the Duke said the paths were cleared. I’d like a walk.”  


“Of course, my darling,” Alfred responded as he rang for their cloaks. He brought his hand to her arm. “You’ve become troubled. Is there something the matter?”  


“Alfred, before we can speak of wedding plans, there are some more,” she paused, “more private things we need to discuss.” She searched his face again and could see that he understood. A footman brought their cloaks, and they walked through the doors into the damp air and thawing ground. With no wind, the thin sun was warm on their faces. They began walking. Silence fell as heavy as the dense clumps of melting snow that clung to the boughs of evergreens and filled the void with the steady patter of their dripping. Winter birds called with their terse and businesslike trills, and through the naked trees, came the sounds of carriages clattering up and down Piccadilly, each going about its business, perhaps mundane, perhaps as serious as this moment here within the walled garden.  


Wilhelmina inhaled audibly as she braced herself for what she was about to say. Alfred sensed her tension. He moved as though he was going to inquire again but, seeing her determined expression, chose to let her begin. She held tight to his arm in the way she so often did to reassure him. “Alfred,” she began firmly, intentionally. “I am going to speak to you plainly. I hope it will not be a shock. There are things that I must understand. Know that there is nothing you can say that I am not prepared to receive nor that would make me turn away from you. I ask only that you are plain with me in return.”  


Alfred felt a momentary stab of fear as he anticipated what subjects she might bring up. In the back of his mind, he had known she would have questions. He expected her to ask them, though perhaps not just now. He knew she had every right to the answers. The wave of fear passed, and he stepped a few inches closer to her, saying “Wilhelmina, what is it you want to know? Please do not be afraid.”  


Wilhelmina swallowed. “Mr. Drummond,” she said his name aloud, pausing to check that the sky would not fall at the sound of it. “He is so much a part of you. I meant what I said about not giving him up. I know he has your love in a way that I do not. You need not pretend for my sake. You need not offer me the trappings of love when your heart remains with him.” This she said selflessly with love and openness, not resentment. She was not trying to manipulate him. “More than that,” she rushed to continue before he could speak, “if, after what has happened these past few days, you regret your proposal, you can tell me, and we shall decide what to do.” At this, she left space for him to answer.  


Alfred took in her words. He understood why she would say such things. He had struck a peace, however imperfect, with the past and the future, with the fate of holding two in his heart at once, but it was not a peace easily recognized by someone who had not experienced his loss, even someone who knew him as well as Wilhelmina. He began cautiously, “You want to speak of Drummond?” She nodded resolutely. He grew wistful, his eyes finding some distant place and his voice taking a melancholy tone. “It was my great fortune that he should grace my life. You did not know me before. Before Drummond, love was no more to me than a subject of art. I did not know what it meant. It is true I go on loving him, but he is gone.” He said this last word definitively. There was an apt silence. Wilhelmina honoured it as she instinctively reached for his hand. He interlaced his fingers with hers and continued, “I went this morning. I went to see his grave. He is gone, Wils. I have begged the gods that I might join him or cease in missing him, but they have answered only that my life continues, and I must bear the scar. I do not wish to bear it alone. I wish to be happy, to have a future. I do not ask you to fill the hole he left. Only to stand by me in my wanting, to love me as you do, and to let me love you as I can in return. It is not fair to you. I know that, but I promise the love I have for you is yours alone.” He stopped and turned to look directly at her. He reached up to brush her cheek and hold it in his hand. “You want to know if I regret asking you to marry me. My only regret is that I cannot give you the ecstasy of falling in love. If you want not my inelegant efforts at affection, I will withdraw them, but please do not say we cannot try to have something worthy of this life.”  


Wilhelmina was crying now, softly, her heart breaking and opening at once. “Do not speak of what is fair,” she said quietly. “We do not get everything we want – you know that better than anyone. I have all that I require, and I will not be jealous of the dead. I am not the one who lost.” At this, Alfred pulled her in and held her tightly. After a moment, Wilhelmina pulled back and looked into Alfred’s eyes. “And yes,” she said, “we can do more than try.”  


They were at the back of the garden now, under the naked canopy of oaks, their sprawling branches dripping incessantly like mournful rain. There was a small cupola set in a clearing with only a dirt path leading to it. It was nearly overgrown with ivy, though the too-perfect balance of plant and stone gave away its care, the intention of the gardener to make it look as though it was there by happenstance, perhaps a ruin of Roman times. Alfred led Wilhelmina into it. They sat together on the hard stone bench, hand in hand. Wilhelmina wiped away her tears and looked at Alfred. He had not cried. He was beyond weeping. In his face was the gratitude she so often recognized and a hopeful earnestness she had not seen before. She felt the ground strengthen beneath her, knowing his wish to be married was a claim on the years to come, a way of shaping destiny rather than enduring a living death at its hands. For all that was beyond her understanding, to defy fate and arrive at happiness by force of will was an idea already in her possession. It was her wish too. It gave her courage to venture on.  


“Very well,” she said. “We will be married, and from this moment, begin our lives again.” She lifted her head and beamed a reflection of his hope.  


“It is all that I want,” he affirmed. “And now that we agree on the prospect, I am impatient to have it. Besides, the sooner we wed, the sooner everyone will find us of no more interest than a passing storm. What do you say to April?”  


“I suppose by then, the weather will be good, and Spring is the very season for new beginnings. Yes, I believe April suits me perfectly. And you’re quite right, I shall be pleased to put an end to every prurient eye staring at my corset.”  


Alfred raised an eyebrow. “If Her Majesty is an indication, I suspect your corset will be a source of endless fascination. Perhaps, we should give them what they want...” He shot her a sly glance and let his voice hang on the words, as though they might be a question, her question, the one he knew she could not find the words to ask.  


“Children Alfred?” Wilhelmina returned, feeling somewhat astonished that he had initiated the subject. “I wondered,” she hesitated, “I … I wasn’t sure. I thought perhaps you might not want to make me a mother.”  


“On the contrary, I want that very much. Do you doubt because of Drummond?” he asked rhetorically and with a raw edge to his tone. “My darling, what makes you think the desires of man are so easily explained?”  


“I do not know,” she said, looking down into her lap. “I suppose it is the general explanation, that is, if there is any explanation at all. Shall we speak now of indelicate things?”  


“Why should we not? You wanted to speak plainly. I can speak only for myself of course.”  


“Alfred, I am afraid I was brought up in the darkness of simplicity, everything you could imagine divided up into virtue and sin, and the imagining itself the greatest of the sins. Certainly, there was no discussion of convivial society among…” she could not utter the words and flushed in her embarrassment.  


“Yes, unspeakable sensibilities are, shall we say, not treated kindly. Do not feel foolish over what has always been kept from you. It is an age of puritans, at least on the surface, but it was not always so. Human nature has existed in a multiplicity of forms in other times and places. As for me, I find desire does not discriminate but for beauty and character, and if one keeps to discretion, it rather increases one’s chances.”  


Wilhelmina let out an amused sniffle and felt herself relax. She thought perhaps Alfred was being purposely glib, but she figured he must have come to his own terms long ago and it was not hers to hold them up for scrutiny. “So, you shall try your chances with your wife then?” she said with a bashful smile.  


“If I may have the honour.” He gave her a playful bow. The tension of the conversation had begun to dissolve, and he was eager to maintain the lighter mood. He flashed an impish look. “Given a certain spirit, it could be quite a diversion.” He looked to see her reaction. He saw excitement in her eyes peering out from behind her modest posture. He squinted, recalling something. “I was intrigued,” he said, “at the ball, when you told me your fondest wish was to make our own rules. I thought perhaps you were speaking of the means of pleasure.”  


“Perhaps in part,” she answered. “I did not know then what I was to expect. I was speaking more of our having freedom to seek what we each desire regardless of what is expected. As a woman, there but a single ideal one is expected to uphold, and that is virtue. But it is a lie, Alfred. It is a lie bent on limitation. It serves an interest. It aims to regulate love and to remove any desire for pleasure or happiness, which truly must be as natural as a taste for honey on buttered bread. Without the virtue, one would not have the sin. And, if that be the case, one might as well enjoy the company of whomever one fancies, and for its own sake, irrespective of any ideal, even love. As Harriet says, pleasure is easy to come by.” Wilhelmina had become far more animated than she anticipated, her eyes burning with the passion of an idea. She felt exposed – perhaps she had revealed too much and exceeded her humility – but she remained defiant. Alfred might as well know her sentiments. She searched his face for his reaction. He appeared amused and perhaps proud. He liked this side of her.  


“An unseemly theory for a woman of your age,” he said wryly. “I couldn’t agree with you more.” He flashed a wicked smile then settled into a look of aloof exasperation. “I fear such thinking is falling out of fashion, my darling, but I shall always be a most willing audience. I was raised on the Regency and have no intention of reform.” He hesitated, as though considering a vague idea, then added in a lowered voice, “Though, I dare say, it is better with love.”  


Hearing this, Wilhelmina resumed her bashfulness. “Alfred,” she said quietly, “I believe what I said, but truly, my outspokenness is all quite theoretical. You must forgive the ignorance of experiences long denied. Whatever I have learned of amorous congress, I have learned in whispers, and the only thing my mother ever said of a wife’s obligation was to ‘Lie back and think of England.’”  


“How very predictable of your mother,” he laughed. “Fear not, my darling. Nature relies on the most elegant simplicity.” At this, he kissed her to prove his point, gently at first, and then harder until she responded in kind. After a while, she drew away breathless. She had no words. Of all the scenarios she had played out in her mind, this one was not among them. Relief, untempered by nagging fears, filled her from head to toe. Alfred brought her back into his embrace and lightly stroked her back. There was a calm sweetness to the moment before the intimacy was broken by the sounds of movement on the gravel path. Alfred stood up to see a footman approaching amid the long winter shadows. He signaled acknowledgment and waved the man away.  


“Her Majesty’s attention will have run out,” he said. “We had best be getting back. They will expect that we’ve settled our plans.” Wilhelmina nodded and smirked in agreement. “Should it please you, here is what I propose. We shall go away to Plas Newydd and enjoy a week or two of easy country life. When we return to London, you and your aunt can set up house and arrange things for the wedding. My family has a place on Grosvenor that no one is using. It should make a suitable residence in town. After the wedding, we’ll look for a proper estate.”  


“Have you been secreting this plan all afternoon?” she asked bemusedly.  


“One must always have a plan at the ready. Something unexpected inevitably comes up.” He gave her a pointed smile and helped her up off the bench. Together they left the privacy of the garden and walked toward the house arm in arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes
> 
> Apsley House is the real London home of the the Duke of Wellington. The details of the garden are an invention.
> 
> According to the Victoria and Albert Museum, "Lie back and think of England" was actual advice given to newly-married women. I couldn't resist the lift.


	4. Ease and Eccentricity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred and Wilhelmina make a visit to Alfred's parents at Plas Newydd. A few of his siblings have also come, and everyone is trying to make sense of Alfred's unexpected engagement. Wilhelmina learns what it is like to join a large, eccentric family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's go on holiday, shall we? It's time to meet the Amazing Angleseys, who are something of an AO3 tradition but actually (a fact I sometimes forget) a total departure from the show. I hope you, dear reader, will enjoy these new characters and the exploration of the different relationships and grey areas that can exist within families. Fair warning: there are a lot of names to keep up with in this chapter - don't fret - just think of how Wilhelmina feels. Also, there are several historical notes at the end.

“Alfred?” Wilhelmina asked pensively over her glass of sherry. They were passing the time after dinner in the drawing room in a quiet corner while the others played cards at a table on the other side of the room. They had each been lost in their own thoughts. It was a comfortable silence. They had become inseparable in the evenings, relishing the placid joy of existing together without impending excitement or secret dread. Alfred looked up, emerging from his reverie, and answered her with a slight turn of his head and an open expression. “I was just thinking about meeting your family. I would not want to tread the wrong path. I wonder. How much do they know of your life? Do they know about…” she trailed off. Even now, she hesitated to veer into covert territory.

Alfred leaned back and sipped his whiskey. “My parents are growing old,” he said. “I would rather they not worry over circumstances about which they can change nothing. So, no, they do not know, though I doubt they would be shocked.”

“And your brothers and sisters?”

“No, not really, unless you count Septimus. He is my brother by blood and in arms and knows everything about me. That is, except anything recent. He is posted to India, and correspondence must tend toward the bland sentiments of distant relations. The British Cavalry is notorious for reading one’s mail.”

“Very well then,” responded Wilhelmina, her tone indicating she did not wish to pursue the topic to any greater depth. “I will say only that we grew close after spending so much time sequestered against the threat of assassination.”

“You shall not need to offer more. They all stopped expecting detailed accounts from me years ago. If anyone tries to pry the door open, just turn conversation to politics. They’ll run after it like dogs on the hunt.” Alfred sounded perfectly nonchalant, which, rather than confidence, gave Wilhelmina a sensation of instant nervousness.

“Goodness Alfred. What I am walking into?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” he replied. “Only that we are a rather large family with the usual interests in the workings of the world. Never fear – they will love you.” Alfred leaned forward, placed his hand on hers and gave her a reassuring look. Then, with mischief in his eye and a sideways smile, he added “Bring your blue dress.”

********************

The next morning, Alfred, Wilhelmina, and the Duchess of Buccleuch set off on the twenty-eight-hour journey by coach to Anglesey. The weather was fair and the ride uneventful. As they approached the Menai Strait, they heard the sounds of heavy construction. To their left they could see the beginnings of the Britannia Bridge, its great wrought iron tubes coming together on wooden platforms. “Ah, progress comes to our sleepy island,” declared Alfred to the women. “Soon, we’ll be steaming by rail and get here without a stop. Mama and Papa must be terrified.”

“Wouldn’t they want the ability to travel more easily?” asked Wilhelmina

“Not likely, my darling,” replied Alfred. “My parents would be quite content if it were still 1820. They are Regency people through and through.”

The Duchess sniffed her disapproval. Wilhelmina turned to her and asked, “Oh Aunt, did you not have high times during the Regency? I understand it was the very age of exhilaration.”

“An age of decadence if you ask me. No, Wilhelmina. I was occupied running a house and a family, and I never had the stomach for intrigue,” said the Duchess.

“There are those who intrigue seeks against their will, Duchess” rejoined Alfred pointedly. 

The Duchess countered, “And there are those who will intrigue like savages summon storms.” She looked triumphant for only a moment before summoning a more placid expression. She had promised herself she would not be troublesome within the realm of the Angleseys. Her disapproval of their scandalous beginnings was no secret and dwelling thus added nothing to an otherwise happy visit.

The exchange sparked a puzzled expression from Wilhelmina. She looked to Alfred for explanation. He took a deep breath before obliging. “My darling, you know the story of my parents’ marriage, do you not?”

Wilhelmina hesitated. She must not know all she should. She answered cautiously, “I know it is each their second. Is there more to tell?”

“Quite. Duchess, shut your ears. I am going to tell her,” warned Alfred. “Wils, Mama and Papa have a love befitting all the Romanticism of the age. A first-rate novelist could not have written more. They were each married to other people – Mama to Wellington’s brother as a matter of fact – but they fell in love and had a most thrilling affaire. As it happened, a mere liaison could not satisfy their desire, so they each divorced and with haste remarried. Papa had to fight a duel to settle the honor of the matter. Never fear, no one was hurt. He was a better shot before he had his leg blown off at Waterloo.”

“Yes, I know about the leg. It is quite famous,” said Wilhelmina.

“You see, it rather unsteadies his aim – for shooting anyway – it was no deterrent to Mama.” He added the last bit to see if he could make the Duchess blush. He was successful only is further bemusing Wilhelmina. For her benefit, he added, “I was born exactly one year and eight days after Waterloo.” Recognition finally flashed in Wilhelmina’s eyes as she turned a deep shade of scarlet.

Now, having crossed the bridge, the mountains were behind them, and in a short time, Plas Newydd came into view. It appeared as an enchanted realm rising from the mist. The enormous house – more of a castle really, with its boxy stone walls and turrets at every corner – was situated on the very edge of the Menai. Bare, grey stems of ivies climbed three stories and scrambled around the many windows. Winter sun glinted off of patches of melting snow, draped across the slightly sloping roof and clinging to the austere mouldings and sills. Drifts of gorse, just beginning to bloom dotted the hill rising away from the drive.

For Alfred, the site refreshed any weariness from the long journey. His pulse quickened with love for the place and eagerness to inhabit it. He was excited to see his family too, though he could not shake a lurking dread. He had kept himself out of touch these past months, until on Christmas, he had sent a long letter telling them of Wilhelmina, announcing his engagement and his intention for this visit. He wondered which of his siblings would be rounded up to join and what suspicions they would bring with them. While no one would pry – it was against the unwritten family code – the tension of pent up curiosity and concern would hang around every conversation. He was glad to have Wilhelmina by his side, his confidant and his evidence of what had kept him occupied. His mother, never displeased to take on one more child, would love her instantly, and that should be enough to avoid anything unpleasant. Having settled on the outcome, he was free to revel in the magic of his family home and the giddy memories of the high times to which it had played host. 

As the carriage pulled up to the main court, Alfred saw his father and mother, General Lord Henry and Lady Charlotte Paget, first Marquess and Marchioness of Anglesey. They were standing with Briggs the head butler, and several other servants in front of the door, ready for a formal welcome. He was always surprised to see his parents had become older than he remembered. His mind had fixed them at the point where he had finished school and no longer came home regularly, so each advance of whitening hair and splotchy skin was a tiny shock. Still, they seemed to maintain their vigor, the quality most intrinsic to them in any case. His mother was a pixie of a woman with a tiny frame, delicate features, and more muscle than anyone would suspect. She still wore her hair swept up in high knots with ribbons twining through them and silvery golden curls framing her face. She radiated energy and appeared as though she could barely contain herself at their arrival. The Marquess, in contrast, waited with patient confidence, surveying the land, performing mental calculations as to the speed of the horses, the weight of the carriage, the exact timing of the arrival. He stood tall, his distinguished posture uninhibited by his wooden leg. He looked fit and still quite handsome, though his eyebrows had grown bushy and the hair brushed against his temples thinner.

Having come to a stop, anticipation filled the carriage. Footman approached and opened the door. The Duchess, being of highest rank, was first to exit. Alfred and Wilhelmina lingered a moment more. She could not hide her nervousness, and Alfred squeezed her hand and kissed her ear as he whispered, “Ready or not.” They emerged from the carriage into the cool salty air, linking arms before stepping toward the house. The Marchioness could not wait and hurried over to them, taking Wilhelmina’s hands, and giving her an approving once-over. “Wilhelmina,” she exclaimed, as though they already knew each other well but had been apart a long time. “What a pleasure for you to visit, dear.”

“The pleasure is mine Marchioness,” said Wilhelmina.

“Call me Mama,” she replied, “Everyone does - tis so very much easier!” The invitation, and its forgone conclusion, had the effect of making Wilhelmina more uncomfortable than before. Before she could respond, the Marchioness had pulled back and swooped upon Alfred, throwing her arms around him, and kissing his cheeks.

“It is a delight to see you too, Mama,” he said, extracting himself and placing his body between her and Wilhelmina. He offered each an arm and led them into the house. There, he greeted his father and made introductions between him and Wilhelmina, the Duchess, and his mother. 

The Marquess gave Wilhelmina a smile of recognition. “Miss Coke, it is a pleasure to see you again,” he said warmly. “I believe we met once before at a Palace reception. If I recall, the court had just returned from France, and you were studying Chopin.” Wilhelmina felt honoured that he should remember their meeting so long ago, and his calm tone put her at ease. She could easily see from where Alfred got his attentive demeanor.

“Why yes,” she replied, “How kind of you to remember.” 

“Come, come,” entreated the Marchioness, ushering Wilhelmina and the Duchess ahead through the grand entry hall. “You must be famished. We have tea waiting in the Saloon.” The way she said “tea” gave the impression there was more than tea. 

As they swept through the passage toward the Saloon, the Marquess hung back with Alfred. “I have missed you my boy,” he said affectionately. “and your mother has been worried sick about you. You owe her a good story.”

“I am sorry, Papa. I had hoped to spare her the concerns of guarding Her Majesty,” said Alfred.

“Do you think she does not read the paper?” the Marquess scolded. “And that is beside the point. You have all but disappeared and now turn up with a fiancée. It is your business, of course, but you cannot prevent the imaginations of those who love you. She seems a lovely woman, by the way, but did you have to bring that old Tory harpy with you?” he added under his breath. 

“Dear Papa, so quick with your assumptions. I think you will find she is a sheep in wolf’s clothing,” replied Alfred, as he followed the women down the passage.

The end of the passage opened to a bright sitting room with tall bay windows looking out to the Menai. The soft sounds of the tide made soothing background music, while slanted platinum daylight streamed in upon the cream-colored walls, hung with scenes of the hunt, and the sumptuous green velvet upholstered furniture arranged around a glowing fire. As the party entered the serene space, Alfred stopped short. Leaning on the end of a sofa, contrapposto with feet crossed at the ankles, was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with light brown hair and a fair, yet oddly tanned, complexion. His strong features resembled that of the Marquess. He sported snug tan breeches and a jaunty royal blue frock coat, which hung in a slightly careless manner, as though he been concerned otherwise and rushed to put it on. Likewise, his boots were unpolished and a few of the sandy curls strayed out of place and fell across his forehead. He wore a rogue’s smile, and his eyes flashed with mischief. Taken together, he exuded an unmistakable rakish charm.

“Septimus!” called Alfred, rushing over to embrace his brother. Septimus beamed, pleased to see him and to have pulled off the surprise. Alfred stood astonished. “However did you…”

Septimus cut him off, “I had leave coming to me, and I caught a steamer in time to sneak in the door and scare the devil out of Mama for the New Year. When we heard you were coming, I decided to extend my stay.” Stepping back from Alfred and becoming aware of the larger scene, Septimus said with exaggerated alarm, “My dear brother, have you forgotten your manners? Who are these lovely ladies you’ve brought with you?” He turned to the Duchess and Wilhelmina, who were looking at each other, stifling giggles.

“Yes, of course. Major Lord Septimus Paget. Her Grace, the Duchess of Buccleuch and the Honorable Miss Wilhelmina Coke.” 

Septimus bowed and kissed their hands. “At your service,” he said.

Introductions having been made, the little group took seats and tea was served. Conversation ricocheted between news of court and news of India, goings on of the estate and wedding plans. Occasionally, one of Alfred’s family would drop in a question aimed at getting to know Wilhelmina, but mercifully, they were far too polite to inquire too deeply or tediously. There was scattered talk of the various siblings, including much ado about the intention of William’s eighteen-year-old son Harry to join, after graduation, the cavalry like his grandfather rather than follow his father into the navy. Wilhelmina felt like she was attending a court reception with all of the people and positions to remember. When Alfred broached the topic of plans for their visit, his mother launched into an animated account. “Adelaide and Cousin Frederick shall be here before dinner. Mary and Emily and their families are arriving tomorrow. George couldn’t get leave, he’s detained in the Hebrides somewhere, and you know it’s always a terrible time getting Lady Caroline’s children to do anything, although William has been in port at Liverpool and aims to come down with Frances and the children too. So, let me see, that’s…” she looked up at the ceiling and counted on her fingers, “twenty-one in all, I believe. A smallish party, but it will have to do.” Though Wilhelmina had prepared herself for meeting several of Alfred’s relations, twenty-one did not sound at all like a small number to her. At least they would not be coming all at once – a good thing – because nothing could have prepared her for her introduction to Lady Adelaide Paget Cadogan.

The Cadogans arrived just after tea as the last daylight hovered on the horizon above the sea. Briggs directed them to the Saloon. Lady Adelaide swept into the room as though it had been void without her presence. She was the youngest of the family, small and spritely like her mother, though something about her energetic confidence ensured she would never go unnoticed. She was fashionably dressed in a cornflower silk frock that matched her quick, clear eyes. The dress made a great bell arcing downward from her tiny waist with several flounces, each trimmed in a thin ribbon of black velvet. The same trim lined the bodice in a deep V, and she had pinned a large cameo brooch to the lace draped across the bust. Her pale blonde hair was parted severely and gathered in tight ringlets over her ears. In her hands, she held a stack of printed papers. She never stopped moving.

Immediately, she seized upon Wilhelmina, taking her hands, and kissing her cheeks. “You must be Miss Coke!” she said, “When I heard, I simply could not wait to meet you. Alfred, she is lovely!” She turned to Alfred, kissing him as well. He motioned to the Duchess, and Adelaide looked momentarily alarmed at her oversight but recovered with a deep curtsey. Alfred made the introduction, to which Adelaide replied, “Tis an honour to have you in our home Duchess and so kind of you to drag Alfred back from London.” She bobbed another curtsey and, without taking a breath, crossed the room toward her mother. “Mama, we’ve arrived. I brought you some new pamphlets of Mrs. Fanny Wright and the latest issue of the Free Enquirer. I finished them on the way over.” She thrust the pamphlets into her mother’s hands then rounded on her father and Septimus, distributing kisses like so many leaves on the wind. “You two are looking handsome. Did you give Alfred a good shock? He deserves it you know, staying away so long and keeping his bride a secret.” She did not wait for their answer and fluttered back to Wilhelmina. “Miss Coke, you will have to sit next to me at dinner and tell me all about your plans!” 

While this flurry of greetings transpired, an unassuming gentleman, good-looking in a rather plain way, stood in the doorway with his elbows bent and his palms in the air. Alfred motioned him in. “The Honorable Frederick Cadogan. My fiancée, Miss Wilhelmina Coke.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” said Frederick.

“Likewise,” said Wilhelmina. “Did you have a good trip?”

“Not bad. Roads are a bit soft. No more than one would expect.” He looked up. The dervish had caught his eye.

“Frederick, darling. I need to change for dinner. Will you please take me upstairs?” He pantomimed defeat, as she pulled him out of the room.

“Lovely to see you too, Adelaide!” Septimus called over her shoulder.

*********************************

A few hours later, the party, now totaling eight, dined on courses of fish and winter greens, potatoes, and mutton chops. While the presentation had all the polite formality Wilhelmina expected of a great house, the conversation round the table was anything but. The Pagets did not mince words when speaking of politics foreign or domestic. Wilhelmina marveled at the ease with which they slipped between warm affection and vigorous argument. She felt out of her depth and kept to herself as they hurled conversation back and forth across the table. 

“Alfred, have you persuaded Her Majesty to do more on the Irish question?” asked the Marquess.

“She is very concerned for the Irish, but she faces quite staunch opposition,” replied Alfred calmly.

“Opposition! There is no opposition in this house. You tell her I know the country, and I think she should do more,” rejoined the Marquess, becoming more animated with each word.

“Henry, I do not believe it is Alfred’s duty to tell Her Majesty what to think,” said the Marchioness in a quiet yet forceful tone.

“I have no reservation telling her what to think. I gave half a leg to England! That bought me a lifetime of strong opinions. Now, I am not saying we repudiate 1066, and give it over to the druids,”

“Papa, there are no druids!” interjected Adelaide

“but the Irish are decent people and deserve a reasonable degree of local control…” he went on addressing Alfred and the Duchess, who uncharacteristically held her tongue, and anyone else listening while Adelaide turned to her mother.

“Mama, I do hope I can count on you to come up to Holyhead for the lecture,” she turned to Wilhelmina, “I am the chair the of the Holyhead Young Ladies Committee for Irish Relief,” then back to the Marchioness, “It would mean so much to have your show of support.” The Marchioness gave a noncommittal nod. “You could bring the uniform up too, and we could do a little presentation,” turning back to Wilhelmina, “We are to auction off one of Papa’s old cavalry uniforms to raise funds for the Anglesey chapter of the Antislavery Society. Oh, Miss Coke! I should be most grateful if we could stay with you a few days – when you get the Grosvenor house up and running of course – when we next come up to London. I must call on the Duchess of Southerland. Her influence with regard to the cause of antislavery is beyond measure. Tell me, are there causes to which you are devoted?”

Wilhelmina was caught off guard. She had not expected a question. She thought a moment before replying modestly, “I am quite devoted to the people in my care; however, I find I am not one for causes.”

“Are you not? Well, I shall have to recruit you! There is so much suffering in the world, you know.” 

Wilhelmina felt her jaw tighten as she wondered if Adelaide had ever known a moment’s suffering in her life. “Indeed there is Lady Adelaide,” she replied in a definite tone, indicating she knew from whence she spoke. 

Adelaide would not drop the subject. “There is so very much to be done. I dare say it is the duty of every lady of position to do her part.”

Wilhelmina was becoming irritated. She had thought it best keep her views to herself – she did not want to make a poor show in front of Alfred’s family – but to be admonished thus, and by someone who knew her not at all, was more than she could sustain. Before she knew it, she heard herself saying, “I fear the _part_ is done all too frequently for the glory of the _lady_. I have seen many causes present themselves in my time at court. Invariably they hope to assist the plight of some poor souls, but seeing the assistance come to little use, they believe they must instruct. Then, seeing such education is ignored, the desire to instruct becomes the desire to control, and I have no desire to control anyone beyond myself. So, as you see, I am not one for causes.”

Adelaide went quiet for what seemed like the first time since she had arrived. Wilhelmina’s face flushed red, and she took a decided interest in the pudding that had been just served. The Marchioness, keen to smooth the awkward moment, took up the conversation. “There is much truth in what you say, dear. One always does well to consider one’s intentions. Now, I am curious,” she said, with a slight cock of her head, “Alfred tells me you care more deeply than any woman in Britain. What would you propose to do about our benighted people?”

Wilhelmina blushed anew at the complement. She replied, “Alfred always exaggerates. I shan’t pretend to know what should or even can be done _about them_ or dare say more than this – there is a great shortage of honest compassion in our world.” She paused, choosing her words carefully, “And I wonder… What good might come if one were to take a man, at odds with the world, grant him his dignity and ask what he desires, rather than tell him what he needs, and be prepared to give to him that thing which he desires whether or not one was so inclined?”

The Marchioness was touched. She sensed Wilhelmina’s question was perhaps not a hypothetical. “Why, that is quite a thing to ponder… clever and kind too,” she said, not quite finishing the thought before catching Wilhelmina’s eye and saying, “Dear, you must excuse us. We are rather unusually passionate, and I am afraid quite remote from diplomacy here on our little island.”

Adelaide, who had been picking at her pudding with quiet indignation, now held in her eye a glimmer of receptivity and what seemed like perhaps a hint of sorrowful shame. “Miss Coke,” she said, “I must apologize. I have a terrible habit of allowing passion to become bombast. I had no right… anyway, I do hope we can be friends.”

“I am sure we can,” answered Wilhelmina generously.

As the dinner concluded, Adelaide took Wilhelmina by the arm. “I am sure you’ve had no time to see the gallery,” she said. “Come with me. I shall give you the tour.” Wilhelmina glanced at Alfred wondering if she should be spared, but he waived her on. The two women ascended the grand curved staircase to the second-floor gallery, which was hung with portraits and other notable works from the elaborate tile floor to the high painted ceiling. Suits of armour and antique military paraphernalia were positioned at intervals around the room. In the center of the East wall was a large panel depicting a gathering following the amputation of the Marquess’s leg, the stark white bandages shown in contrast to dark surroundings. Wilhelmina could not have expected such a graphic portrait and caught herself gawking at it. Adelaide came to her rescue, “Gruesome is it not? Mama absolutely hates it, but Papa insists on keeping it up. I suppose it is his prerogative. To my view, I am not sure which is worse, the leg or that hideous mustache.” She giggled at herself, and Wilhelmina felt relieved that she had not caused offence. She relaxed her shoulders and began examining some of the other works. Adelaide offered stories and details on a few of the pieces before turning to catch Wilhelmina’s eye. Clearly, there was something more personal she wanted to say. She hesitated a moment, becoming more still and focused than Wilhelmina had yet observed. In a modest tone she said, “Miss Coke, I mean to thank you for what you have done for my brother. He never thinks he needs looking after, but it is not true. I know something has happened. Whenever he is hurt, he becomes so very distant, and we had not heard three words from him since the court returned from Scotland, or … more precisely … since Mr. Drummond was killed.” She looked at Wilhelmina with a question in her eye, but Wilhelmina would not allow her waters to be fished.

“It was a terrible summer,” was all she said.

Adelaide respected her silence on the matter and continued, “Whatever it is, I need not know. He will tell Septimus, of course. And you must know as well – and I am glad of that – and grateful you have given him back to us. I want only his happiness.”

Wilhelmina could see she was sincere and could not keep back her welling tears. She reached out to touch Adelaide’s arm. “And I am glad,” she said, “that he has no scarcity of love.”

Later, she caught a moment alone with Alfred. “I believe Lady Adelaide is wise to you,” she said.

He looked at her with a sideways smirk and narrowed eyes. “You shall find Adelaide is wise to everything to the depth of about six inches,” he replied.

“That is not fair, Alfred. She cares for you very much.” 

“I am sure she does, and I for her. She means well, but she would fancy me Lord Byron and find it her duty to redeem my lost soul. I wish not to become one of her projects,” he said in a definite tone meant to close the matter. Then he added, “I was amused. At dinner, I believe you got the best of her. Well done.” Wilhelmina felt embarrassed. Was there anything that escaped Alfred’s observation? She looked at the floor trying to think of something to say. He picked up her chin and caught her eye. “I mean it,” he said, “we Pagets are a formidable lot.” He brushed a curl from her forehead and looked into her eyes with proud affection. “Well done.”

***************************

The next day, after luncheon, Alfred and Septimus slipped out of the house and headed for the stable. It was a large, gabled, white building with dark half timbers in the Tudor style. Inside smelled of fresh hay and was tidy and well-organized, the work of the head groom, Rhys. He was a lean, strong man about ten years older than Alfred and Septimus who liked to take part in racing now and again. His father had been the head groom before him, and in their youth, he had taught Alfred and Septimus much about riding at speed. It was a joyful reunion, as the three men worked together to tack up a couple of Thoroughbreds. For Septimus, Rhys chose a dark brown colt with a long black mane and tail, and for Alfred, a chestnut filly with her mane pinched up in braids.

Alfred and Septimus mounted their horses and took the low road down to the beach. The air was cold and wet but the sun warm, perfect weather for riding hard and speaking in confidence as only they could. Like his brother, Septimus had a habit of only recounting so much to the rest of the family. He told Alfred of the gruesome fighting in which he had been engaged in Ferozeshah and Aliwal and his fears that hostilities were in no way settled. Alfred listened intently, all the while soaking in the beloved scenery and noting all the little changes to the land. As they descended from the road to the beach, Alfred noticed several troubling spots of erosion beneath the old sea wall that ran along the Menai the length of the estate. Though it had stood for hundreds of years, it was often in need of repair. Beyond the wall the beach spread out and became a wilderness of tide pools, dunes, and outcroppings until it took a sharp turn at the ancient stone windmill standing on the point about a mile and a quarter away.

“Shall we race?” asked Septimus.

“Only if we make it interesting,” replied Alfred.

“Alright, last one past the point coughs up five quid and has to sit next to Adelaide at dinner,” said Septimus as he lined his horse up to an imaginary pole. Alfred came alongside him, and they waited a moment before counting down their start. In a burst, the horses were charging along the rocky beach past glistening drifts of melting snow. Septimus, in better practice, took the lead, cleverly cutting off Alfred’s line with a maneuver through a narrow channel in an outcropping of rocks. Alfred sensed the move and instantaneously asked his horse to respond by jumping the outcropping then accelerating to top speed. Septimus, thinking he had bested his brother, was caught complacent. The two horses were now neck and neck, feeding off each other’s speed, giving everything to their riders. The old mill came into view and grew closer by the second. Alfred crouched down and gave his horse one last ask. The horse reached out with his whole body, his strides becoming just enough longer. When they reached the finish, Septimus had come up just short with sandy mud on his face for the trouble.

Alfred laughed. “It looks like you’ve been riding more elephants than horses!”

Septimus sat up with mock indignation. “Who’s to say I didn’t let you win?”

“Let me win? Since when does the indominable Septimus Paget throw a victory?”

“Since my dear aaaging,” he drew out the word, “brother left his youthful years behind him.”

“Septimus, you are not a whole year younger than me. Cross the Menai and back and you’ll be thirty as well.”

“Fair enough,” Septimus turned serious. “I was joking, but truly you seem to have more cares since we were last together.”

“Indeed,” Alfred replied, turning his gaze to the sea without offering to elaborate. He knew what was coming. This was usually the moment when Septimus would bring up some concern or problem for Alfred to illuminate with his way of asking pointed questions. It appeared today he was the object of concern instead. 

“Alfred,” Septimus inclined his head until he caught Alfred’s eye. He spared any preamble, “My dear brother, it seems you’ve shocked us all. Engaged! And by your own inclination! Man, I’ve lost fifty quid to William, and George is roundly pissed. He’s sure he’s going to be stuck with Cecilia. Who is this woman and was has happened to bring the thing about?”

“Sept, slow down. What makes you think I wouldn’t want to share my life?”

Septimus squinted in disapproval. “Don’t play your game of questions with me. You know quite well why I am surprised. My brother, the enigmatic rake and eternal playboy to the court of England wants to settle down? There’s a story there, and you might as well tell me.”

“You had best gather some of that driftwood and start a fire. It is too long a story for this cold. I’ll secure the horses.” Alfred dismounted and set to work, glad to have a few moments to gather his thoughts. Septimus did as instructed, and soon they were sitting on smooth rocks with a small bonfire blazing in front of them. Alfred took out a flask and took a long draught before handing it to Septimus. “Sept,” he said, staring into the fire, “You don’t know the hell I’ve been through.”

“I understand it was a quite a difficult year,” replied Septimus as he casually broke little sticks and threw the bits into the fire. “Papa is quite troubled by the situation in Ireland. I am sure that concerns you too. And with the uproar in the House, and madmen shooting at people every other month…” he trailed off briefly, then looked at Alfred. “Terrible thing about your friend,” he said kindly but in an off-hand way that indicated he had no idea the gravity of the topic.

Alfred tensed from head to toe and sucked in a breath. He closed his eyes before he spoke, “Friend is not quite an adequate word Septimus.” He looked over and met his brother’s eyes to be sure his meaning was taken. Septimus responded with a parade of expressions – puzzlement, surprise, understanding, then finally compassion.

“Love?” Septimus asked simply. Alfred nodded, unwelcome tears welling in his eyes. “How long?”

“Years, minutes. I hardly know. I believe we were in love a long time before we gave ourselves to it, and then just after, he was gone. I thought I would go mad, Sept.” 

Septimus reached over to place a comforting hand on Alfred’s shoulder. “Tell me about him,” he said.

Alfred shook away his tears and took the flask back. After another long draught, he told all there was to tell, sometimes searching for an adequate expression or stumbling over a detail of the entirely unpracticed story. He felt a sense of relief that he had never imagined he needed after guarding himself so long. Septimus listened intently, feeling heavy sadness and pangs of guilt at having been entirely ignorant of his brother’s suffering. When Alfred had finished, Septimus thought he understood the answer to his initial question. To be sure, he asked, “And Miss Coke? She was there for you?”

“At every turn. I do not know what I would have done without her. I might be at the bottom of the Thames,” said Alfred softly.

“I wish you would have called on me,” said Septimus.

“It’s not really something I could drop in a letter to India by way of the British Cavalry. I kept it all to myself. But she knew. She knows. I don’t know how, but she knows.”

“And she is not bothered?”

“No. She answers every question with love.”

“Don’t think me a dickhead, but what’s in it for her? Security, I suppose.”

“That’s one answer. But it is more than that. It is like we each can see inside the other’s soul, Sept. Everything is laid bare between us. There are no secrets, no mysteries. That may not sound romantic, but after what I’ve been through, it is what I need. I cannot accept less, and neither can she. In her own way, she has endured the cruelty of the world too, being continually put up for sale in the slave market that passes for society’s matchmaking. Her dearest wish is to be free, and I’ll never try to possess her.”

“When we get home, I shall give Mama due congratulations.”

“She is really something Sept – kind beyond measure and open to everything our world disallows. She takes me as I am and asks not for me to disavow what came before. I dare say, she is a bit of a rebel when it comes to love. She has ideas. I struggle to put it words, except to say that she is fierce in the gentlest possible way, and she is only just beginning to discover it.”

“So, you love her?”

“Beyond doubt.”

“But desire, Alfred. It’s important. Can there be passion between you?”

“You needn’t worry, Sept. Love may grow from desire, but it can work the other way around too.” Alfred reflected a moment then broke into a mischievous smile, which beyond any of the words he had spoken had the effect of convincing Septimus. “And Wils,” he continued “she is uninitiated, but she’s been in the company of Victoria and Harriet for years now. She knows a bit more than your average country ballroom ingenue. I get the feeling she’s up for an adventure.”

Hoping to prop up Alfred’s turn of mood and leaven his inquisition, Septimus ventured, “Here’s the real test. Do you find her beautiful?” He raised his eyebrows and emphasized the last word – always Alfred’s tell - with a tone of jest in his voice, but Alfred refused the levity and again turned serious. He had sensed Septimus’s skepticism and wanted to make sure he was understood. 

“Whatever I thought of her when we met, she became so.” He looked directly at his brother. “Septimus, have you ever really loved?”

“You know me. I’m in and out of love at least once a month.”

“That is not what I mean, and you know it. Have you ever loved someone? Have you ever just known that you want to share your life?”

“No, I suppose not.”

“Well, I have. Twice now. Drummond changed me Sept. He taught me the depth of love. I will never stop loving him. But I cannot live out my days imprisoned in a memory. He is gone, but there is more for me. I do not even know what I wanted before, but I know what I want now. I want to belong to someone. I want to create a family. Wils and I, we’ll do that, and without pretense or duplicity.”

“My dear brother, those are some lofty ideals, and this is indeed the strangest foundation for a union I’ve ever heard of. I have my doubts that so much water can forever flow gently under the bridge, but you have my love and backing, and I will endeavor to make a sister of your bride.” Septimus leaped up and thrust a hand at Alfred, pulling him to his feet. The sun was sinking rapidly toward the sea behind gathering clouds, and a cold wind had begun blowing off the water. “Now, we are past late for tea. Mama will have a fit.” He kicked sand over the fire and stamped out the embers. Alfred knew better than not to let him have the last word.

***********************

The Marchioness served tea in the library. It was a grand room with high ceilings and an imposing carved double door opposite a large stone fireplace. Above the Georgian mantlepiece hung the austere portrait of the Marquess’s father flanked by the coats of arms of the Baylys and the Pagets. The long back wall was lined with deeply stained wood bookshelves and paneled alcoves housing various busts and artifacts. The opposite wall held three tall windows, each draped in rich verdant green, the light from which greatly alleviated the gravity of the room. Persian carpets covered the floors, lending warmth and comfort. 

Earlier in the day, two of Alfred’s older sisters had arrived, the childless Lady Emily who was married to Lord John Townsend, 1st Earl of Sydney, and Lady Mary, the wife of Lord John Montagu, 7th Earl of Sandwich and mother of four small children ranging from six-year-old Arthur to baby Ada who was just eight months. Wilhelmina, despite her years of practice, found her head was spinning in attempts to engage meaningfully with each prospective in-law, and she was annoyed that Alfred had abandoned her to face the introductions alone. The Marchioness seemed similarly perturbed that her sons had not yet returned from their unannounced outing. Tea was every bit as boisterous as dinner had been the night before, though with more voices added to every loud debate. Wilhelmina felt somewhat overwhelmed and found herself wandering away from the group, gazing out the window to see if she might see Alfred and Septimus coming up the drive. The Marchioness noticed her distance and came over to her with a tranquil offer of more tea and fresh scones. Wilhelmina accepted, and the two women fell into conversation.

“If I may, I am quite pleased to steal your attention for a moment, dear,” said the Marchioness in a hushed voice. “I am led to believe you and I have some ideas in common. Alfred tells me you hold some rather unconventional ideas of love. Love – free love – is something of a passion of mine, you know.”

Wilhelmina was again caught off guard by the way in which Alfred’s family seemed unafraid of controversy, and she did not know quite how to answer. “Well, I suppose that must be the term. I dare say, I am entirely uneducated on the concept in any formal way. It is just that in my own observation, I have come to believe our ideas of love are far too limiting, and so many suffer for its enforcements and prohibitions.”

“Indeed. Indeed. Tis a brave thing to break them too. I should know. Dear, you are not alone in your thinking. There are many who have come before. These old selves hold volumes,” said the Marchioness.

“I would not want to trouble you,” replied Wilhelmina with the expected modesty, though her eyes were alight with the prospect of delving into real philosophy.

“Tis no trouble! The pleasure would be mine. Now, let me see. Come over here,” the Marchioness glided over to a corner of the room that was arranged with two chairs and a dainty writing desk, on which perched two delicate porcelain parrots, a spiteful wedding gift from her first husband in which she chose to find hilarity. The chairs were upholstered in celadon silk, and a low chinois dish of the same hue was filled with forced paperwhites. The little nook, her space, possessed an air of femininity unseen in the rest of the room. From the shelf nearest the desk she began pulling out books and pamphlets, clearly loved with their well-worn covers and dog-eared pages, and piling them on the desk – three volumes of Ovid, the complete poetry of William Blake, Mary Wollstonecraft’s _Vindication of the Rights of Woman_ , Nichols, Owen, Fourier, and Spencer. Wilhelmina recognized some of the works as forbidden in the school and home of her youth. She thrilled at the possibility of reading every word, of being connected to a tradition beyond her own imaginings. She told the Marchioness as much and was asking where she should begin when, at last, Alfred and Septimus entered the library. The Marchioness looked up with a scolding expression. It served its purpose, as the two grown men looked back at her in the sheepish way of recalcitrant boys caught out. Wilhelmina could not help but giggle, her mood toward Alfred softening at his momentary childishness and the knowledge he had so thoughtfully orchestrated her exchange with the Marchioness. She too could not stay cross and beamed a wide smile, beckoning them over. Alfred, seeing the stack of books, now looked quite pleased with himself. 

“Mama, what is this?” he asked, feigning ignorance.

“Oh, just a few books to send up to London with you. We’ve about ransacked the library at Grosvenor, and you two must start it up the again,” she said. Alfred was surprised but deeply gratified. He had not expected his mother to give away her books. They were among her most prized possessions. He could remember her, when her hair was all gold and her cheeks like full roses, reading her Blake by the window, and the two of them sitting in the summer garden discussing _Metamorphosis_ when he was more than a child but not yet a man and not at all sure how to become one. He thought it must mean more to her to see them carried into the future than to hold on. 

“Mama, we cannot possibly take your precious books,” he protested.

“Nonsense, dear. We are bursting at the seams! I shall be glad to make some room.”

Alfred could see she did not wish him to make a fuss, so instead he joked with her, “Mama, with all of that,” he gestured dramatically to the precariously high stack, “we shall need a separate carriage.”

“What a splendid idea, dear. I have a few sticks of furniture and some paintings to send up too. Oh, and the Elizabethan mirror! Wilhelmina dear, I hope you won’t mind.” 

Wilhelmina did not mind. She was awed by the generosity she could never expect from her own family. How different they were from the Pagets, remote and self-absorbed and thoughtless – her father, whose death had not come with the sadness it should have, her distant brothers, and her mother, whose one true talent was finding fault in everything. Wilhelmina supposed they would come to the wedding. Her mother, in particular, was not likely to miss the chance to be in church with the queen. She felt a pang of guilt that she did not much care. This was her life now, and she was building something good, piece by quirky piece. She was brought back to the room by the movement of Alfred away from her. Septimus was pulling him by the elbow.

“I beg your pardon, but may I borrow Alfred for a few minutes more?” he asked, mischief animating his expression, not waiting to receive an answer. The Marchioness pursed her lips and rolled her eyes before flapping her hands in a shooing gesture and rejoining conversation with Wilhelmina.

“What the devil are you up to, Septimus?” asked Alfred skeptically.

“If we are investing in the library at Grosvenor, I have a contribution.” He led Alfred to the opposite corner where a large set of freestanding drawers all but hid them from view. From one of the drawers, he pulled an ornate leather portfolio. “I brought it to entertain Mama and Papa, but I think perhaps it would make a better wedding present.” Alfred looked on curiously, still skeptical of whatever the thing in the portfolio might be. Septimus laid it on a plank pulled out from the console with a little knob but did not open it. He was clearly enjoying the buildup of anticipation. “I made the acquaintance of a fine, rather peculiar, gentleman in Gujarat, Richard Burton.” 

“Richard Burton?” asked Alfred. “The one who was expelled from Trinity College five years ago?”

“The very same. He is serving with the East India Company – rather good in a fight actually – but, as I say, a peculiar sort. He worships with the Sikhs and the Hindus and takes part in all manner of practices and customs, and he has a particular fascination with that particular custom one might find wherever one finds people.” Alfred’s interest was piqued, but he rather wished Septimus would get to what was inside the portfolio. Yet Septimus drew out the story, “In any case, the man has a genius for languages, and is working diligently to translate many of the ancient texts of the region. In his research, he stumbled upon this.” Septimus tapped the portfolio. “His translation is not nearly complete – he has only just finished the second chapter, but he was feeling generous and shared with me a copy.” Alfred raised an eyebrow. This did not sound like the sort of thing one shared in a mere spirit of generosity. “Alright, if you must know, I helped him out with a little liaison that, shall we say, was unapproved.”

“Septimus, you try my patience,” Alfred said in mock warning. “What is this thing that is worthy of illicit liaisons, transport across oceans, and stealing me away from ladies on whose good graces I have only a tenuous hold?”

Septimus made him wait a moment longer then, playing at the utmost secrecy, he folded open the leather cover. Inside were dozens of loose printed sheets, the top one reading: 

_The Kamasutra of Vatsyayana_  
_or Aphorisms on Love_  
_Translated from the Sanskrit._

Alfred hesitated as he had no idea what was so exciting to Septimus. “Go ahead. I think you will find it quite fascinating. Here,” Septimus said as he turned over several sheets and pointed at a paragraph in the middle of a page. Alfred began reading and found the puzzle fell instantly into place. He read on for a few pages before looking up and staring Septimus in the face.

“I’m not sure fascinating quite covers it.”

“Rather a revelation, is it not?”

“Sept, I sometimes wonder if you are an idiot. Suppose you’d been caught bringing this text into the country?” 

Septimus shot Alfred an exasperated look. “We are Pagets. Do we get caught?”

“Well, no, you have a point, but could not you have given me a bowl or some such thing?”

“As I said before, I did not bring it here with you in mind, but it occurred to me, given the circumstances,” he hesitated, lowering his voice “given the circumstances, it might be helpful.” He said this half expecting Alfred would punch him in the face and shrunk back a bit at the thought.

Alfred simply rolled his eyes. “Septimus, dear brother,” he said sarcastically, “it may have been some time, but I know how to treat a woman.”

“Not like this you don’t,” rejoined Septimus. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Alfred. Just take it!” With that, he shut the cover and shoved the portfolio into Alfred’s arms.

“That decides it. I shall give you my sincere and humble thanks, but you are most certainly an idiot.” Alfred took the portfolio and placed it back in its hiding place. Then he left the corner to join the rest of the party with Septimus on his heals.

******************

What had been a pleasant late afternoon became a drizzly evening and then a rainy night. More than half the party had gone to bed, when Alfred’s older half-brother, Captain Lord William Paget, and his family finally arrived. They entered the Saloon looking damp and tired. William had a little girl asleep on his shoulder. Wilhelmina thought he must have favored his mother, as he looked nothing like Alfred and Septimus, being thicker about the midsection with coal black mustache and hair flecked with grey at the temples. Another round of introductions ensued. William’s wife, Lady Frances seemed a practical sort of person, and his teenage sons, Harry and Jack as perfectly polite and impatient as one would expect of boys their age. They kept the conversation short, wanting to retire after an arduous and often delayed journey. William attested to the foul turn in the weather and gave a disquieting report that a squall in the Irish Sea might be headed toward Anglesey. By the sound of the wind, he was probably right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes
> 
> Doing the research for this work is half the fun. I am starting to think the fandom might also be Wikipedia. That is the source for pretty much all of the historical figures and concepts mentioned in the chapter - rather superficial and impressionistic, but a good point of departure for the imagination and that's the idea, right? I am also quite fond of the National Trust wedsites, which are full of information on the locations. A few more specific notes:
> 
> The real Alfred's real birthday was as described, which is truly amazing.
> 
> I've fictionalized many of the details of Plas Newydd and the surrounding geography. The painting described in the chapter is real though, you can see it in the NT website.
> 
> The Duchess of Southerland was indeed very involved in the antislavery movement.
> 
> The authors the Marchioness gives Wilhelmina to study up on free love can be found starting with the Wikipedia page for that concept. Some of them have some views that today we would find problematic, but it should be said that, at the time, they would have represented radical liberalism.
> 
> Ovid's "Metamorphosis," if you've not already read it, is Greek mythology told through the theme of people/gods changing into other people/gods/things. It presents a fairly fluid view of gender and sexuality in many of the stories. Just the sort of thing a 19th-century mama bear might give her teenage son struggling to understand himself (perhaps, who really knows?). 
> 
> Parrots are associated with loose women in (some) Chinese symbology
> 
> Richard Burton did infact introduce the Kamsutra to Britain in the 1880s, at which point, despite the decency laws of the time, it became the most pirated work of the time. He was not actually the translator, but the story reads better if we pretend he is. He was also in India in the 1840s, so it is conceivable that he could have already started the project and slipped Septimus an early copy.
> 
> Finally, if you want a bit more Regency versus Victorian Era background detail, these two podcasts are fantastic:  
> "Articles of Interest #10: Suits" https://99percentinvisible.org/episode/suits-articles-of-interest-10/  
> "Decoder Ring - The Stowe-Byron Contraversy" https://slate.com/podcasts/decoder-ring/2020/02/harriet-beecher-stowe-lord-byron-incest-atlantic


	5. Weather the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred and Wilhelmina's holiday turns harrowing as a winter cyclone bears down on Plas Newydd, and the Angleseys cope with its aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our sojourn in the realm of Anglesey continues, though it is anything but relaxing for our intrepid heroes, as we engage in some ever-so-slightly gratuitous archetypal melodrama. At this stage, 2020 calls for melodrama, and this is fun not literature, right? 
> 
> Don't think too hard about the geography, and may their trials be your enjoyment Dear Reader!

Wilhelmina slipped into a soft bed in a cozy guest room, pleased to be alone after so many hours in boisterous company. The room was decorated in more of the Marchioness’s favorite celadon, interrupted here and there by a sash or tassel of crimson, and a striking red and white striped amaryllis in a pot on the bedside table. Absently, she wondered if the dazzling flower were again Alfred’s doing, or that of the Marchioness, or perhaps the sort of thing they would both think of, he having learned from her. She reclined against deep pillows with her hands behind her head, listening to the sounds of gusty wind and pelting rain coming off the swelling sea. Despite the growing storm, she felt safe within the thick stone walls, warm and comfortable from the still-glowing embers of the fire and the enveloping featherbed. She relaxed into the splendid tranquility one only realizes through such a contrast, not knowing it could shatter. Beneath the calm, there was an excited joy and no small amount of pride. She had succeeded in meeting Alfred’s family – the ones most important to him at least – in entering the world of his upbringing, in holding her own. They were overwhelming to be sure but also full of a love and loyalty that went without question and therefore could be trusted. She had never experienced anything like it. What was more, it seemed Alfred’s relations had accepted her, perhaps on his credit, but just maybe on her own. She wondered if she could dare enjoy the sense of belonging and fell asleep imagining how she and Alfred might bring their own young ones into the fold.

While she slept, the storm outside gathered furious intensity and brought its wrath to bear on the coast. Wilhelmina woke to the resonant boom of stone falling upon stone. Like thunder, it split the air with one loud crack followed by a cascade of ominous rumbles. It was a sound she could feel, or perhaps the house shook, she could not be sure. The sea, so soft and soothing just hours ago, was now a raging roar. It slammed into the shore with deafening crashes that drowned out the even the wail of the violent wind and rain. Wilhelmina was frightened and instantly alert. Something was wrong. She got out of bed and lit a candle before wrapping herself in her moss green dressing gown. Her hair hung in a long plait over her shoulder. An uncanny sense of urgency told her she had no time to make herself any more decent. She opened the door to the passage, intent on seeing if anyone else had heard the terrifying sound or felt the shaking. Just then, the loud clanging of an alarm bell rang out above the din of wind and water. 

At once, she could here feet hitting the floor underneath every doorway. One by one, lights shone through the cracks. Doors flew open as every member of the house party emerged and headed in a ramshackle parade down the graceful staircase. Wilhelmina found Alfred halfway down. He put his arm firmly around her, but the assurance could not allay the fearful resolve blazing in his eyes, the flashing thoughts as he examined facts and formulated plans. She had seen the look before in times of danger. She knew it well. At the foot of the staircase, the party gathered in the great hall, the women similarly clad in their dressing gowns, the men in only breeches, boots, and shirt sleeves. The young children were clinging to their mother’s skirts, and Mary held her baby close. Someone lit lanterns along the walls, and they all waited in the flickering light, anxious to understand what was happening, as the sound of the sea grew ever closer and louder.

Soon the Marquess and Marchioness appeared on the gallery. He had put on one of his uniform coats and stood imposingly above the family and servants gathered below. At the same time, a footman came running into the hall shouting, “There’s been a breach in the sea wall! The waves are coming in six high!” The Marquess’s face turned to steely seriousness. He began giving orders, rapid fire but dead calm. 

“Alfred, Septimus. Get to the stable. Check the cottages. Make sure everyone is out, then bring the horses up. You will have no more than half an hour. It will take you seven minutes to get there and three to get back. The sweep of the cottage should take ten. If you don’t run into trouble ,you should be able to make two runs. Take Harry and,” he turned to look at William’s boy of fifteen. “Jack are you a good rider?” he asked.

“Yes Sir!” replied Jack.

“Take Harry and Jack with you. Godspeed men!”

Alfred and Septimus both saluted their father, and the boys followed their lead. Wilhelmina squeezed Alfred’s arm in apprehension more than reassurance. Alfred turned to her and looked into her frightened eyes. “We shall be alright,” he said. Septimus and the boys were already hastening away. Alfred gave her a quick, ardent kiss and ran after them. 

The Marquess did not wait for the scene to play out. “William,” he addressed his elder son, “Go assess the breach. Take Cadogan with you. Determine whether the sea is capable of entering the storerooms and report back. If that be the case, we will need to move up the provisions. Godspeed!” William and Cadogan departed as quickly as the other men and in the same direction. “Townshend, Montegu, patrol the entrances. Direct anyone seeking refuge up here. Briggs,” the General continued, now addressing the head butler. “Divide your men. I want a fire in every hearth. Have everyone else on hand to empty the stores. Charlotte,” he turned to his wife. Her tiny poised frame showed her to be in perfect synch with him. “Organize the ladies and the rest of the house staff. There may be a number of people coming up to the house in need of care, and our men will surely need attention by the time this is finished.” 

The Marchioness nodded and descended the stairs. She first pulled aside the head housekeeper. “Mrs. Roberts, open the kitchen. Tell the cooks to boil as much water as they can. We shall need compresses, and cups with lemon and honey. Use the lemons from the Christmas decorations. There should be enough unspoiled. Oh, and please have someone bring some coffee to the Marquess. Have the maids gather all the blankets they can find. Bring some here and set the Octagon Room to receive the people who come up.”

“Yes, M’Lady,” answered Mrs. Roberts as she motioned to her staff to head downstairs.

After she had gone, Charlotte gathered her daughters. “Now,” she said in a low steady tone, “we have a dreadful task ahead of us. I do not know how many people will be coming up, but they are likely to be hypothermic and some may be hurt. Emily, Mary, Frances, you take charge of the tenants and staff in the Octagon Room. I shall send for you if your men need you.” Emily and Mary nodded. Frances looked terrified. She was used to having her husband away at sea facing unknown perils but not her boys. She trembled a little and shut her eyes against tears. Emily took her arm, which seemed to fortify her. She stifled her emotion and nodded her commitment. The Marchioness continued, “Adelaide and Wilhelmina, I want you to stay here and be ready to attend to whatever odd needs present themselves.” Adelaide moved to speak, but her mother glared silence and she complied. Wilhelmina nodded to the Marchioness, trying not to let the fear and confusion show in her eyes. She was quite unfamiliar with the geography of the place and could not fathom the dangers everyone else seemed to grasp. What exactly did it mean for the sea wall to be breached? What people were in the path of destruction? Why should Alfred have only half an hour? Half an hour. Half an hour for the emergency to unfold. Half an hour and he would be back to explain everything to her. She felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to see Aunt Buccleuch standing in steadfast support, her wise and resolute expression a clear instruction. Wilhelmina took heart from it and those of the other women and steeled her own resolve. She would do whatever the Marchioness asked. 

The Duchess stepped forward and addressed the Marchioness. “Lady Charlotte, how may I be of assistance?” she asked. The Marchioness looked bewildered for a split second. She had not expected the offer. 

“Thank you, Duchess,” she said. “You are truly kind. If you would, please take the children to the library and keep them calm. I am sure they are frightened, poor dears, but we cannot have them in the way.” The Duchess nodded, took the baby from Mary’s arms, and proceeded to shepherd the young ones to the library. Frances, Mary, and Emily left for their station. For a moment, all was quiet as the waiting began.

*******************

Alfred, Septimus, and the two boys rushed down a stone passage before stopping at a large storage room near a rear door. In it were several old cavalry coats hanging on hooks along with other provisions for the cold. They hurried to suit up then huddled by the exterior door. Alfred spoke in a calm low tone. “Boys, we have seven minutes to get to the stable. That’s a dead sprint. Mind where you step and keep close. Harry, you stay with Sept and do whatever he says. Jack, you’re with me.”

“Yes Sir Uncle Alfred,” the boys replied in unison. 

“Alright.” Alfred opened the door. The icy rain whipped inside. He lowered his head. “Go!” 

Adrenalin shot through their bodies as their legs pounded the crushed gravel path. In twenty seconds, they were soaked through. The black night and blinding rain made it so they could barely make out their own outlines, but so long as they could hear the crunch of the gravel, they were headed in the right direction and would not risk turning an ankle or knee. Septimus took the lead with the boys behind. Alfred paced himself at the back, accounting for each member of the party by counting the footfalls. Thirty yards out from the stable, he heard the splashing and sloshing of boots hitting water. Within seconds his own plunged into the frigid surf, striking his feet with shocking cold. Inside the stable, the flood waters were already knee deep when the waves swept in. Lanterns were lit revealing the work of the grooms, who had managed to tack half the horses and were standing on benches above the water, working furiously on those remaining. “Rhys!” Septimus shouted over the roar of the water. “Give me four! We are to search the cottages then take them to high ground. We should be back in twenty minutes. Do you think you can have the rest ready?”

“Yes M’Lord!” shouted Rhys.

“If we don’t return or the water gets worse, turn the horses loose and get yourselves out!” said Septimus, as he mounted the largest of the horses, a wild black steed whose white eyes flashed in near panic. Septimus got control of the horse and directed Harry to take the chestnut filly Alfred had ridden the day before. Alfred jumped on another jittery mount, calming it with his keen assurance. He chose a confident grey for Jack, one he knew was a retired war horse and would not spook for anything. In less than a minute, the men set off for the row of tenant cottages along the road adjacent to the stable. Septimus’s voice boomed as he shouted to the occupants, trying to ascertain who was there. A few called back as they fled the water. “Get up to the house!” yelled Septimus. “There will be help there. Anyone who can ride, get to the stable. The horses will be ready!” 

Ferocious gusts of wind howled as if to herald the plummeting temperature. Rain was turning to ice, and it lashed their faces as they reached the last cottage. Violent water was a third of the way up the exterior wall, making its wooden door impossible to move. Alfred saw a waiving light in the window. There were people inside. He called to Septimus, “Find something to break that window!” To the boys he shouted, “Harry, Jack, you two know your way back. Take the horses to old stone passage on the high side of the house and secure them under roof. Wait for us inside!”

Septimus reached around, feeling for anything that might be floating in the churning water. It was up to the horse’s girth and clawing at his freezing feet. His hand exploded in pain as it hit a massive piece of driftwood. He picked it up and hurled it at the window. The sound of the shattering glass broke through the relentless noise of the wind and water. Septimus grabbed another limb and broke out the remaining shards. “Who is there?” he called.

“Charles Smythe, M’Lord, and my wife and boy.”

“Smythe, come through the window. The water is deep for about fifteen yards. After that, you will have to make it up to the house on foot. There will be help there. Your wife can ride with me, and Lord Alfred will take the boy.”

Smythe did as instructed. Mrs. Smythe, still holding the only source of light, put her son up into the window. Alfred steered his horse against the sill. The horse was not as tall as Septimus’s steed, and the flood water came up over his shins. He took the boy behind him. “What’s your name?” he shouted.

“Charlie,” said the boy, who could not have been more than six.

“Alright Charlie,” said Alfred with firm assurance, “Hold as tight to me as you can.” When he felt the boy’s arms clinging securely around his waist, he gave his horse a kick and turned him toward the path to the house. Once he was out of the water, he asked the horse for a full gallop, arriving at the passage in under the expected three minutes. His feet and hands throbbed in numb pain. Lanterns had been lit, and he could see they boys still at work securing their horses along with a few of the tenants who had ridden up as well. Jack was shivering violently. Alfred called him over and looked directly at him with an expression that would take no argument. “Jack,” he said as he handed the boy Charlie down off the horse. “Take this boy into the house to wait for his mother. Then, go find yours.” Jack flashed disappointment at being dismissed. “You’ve done well,” added Alfred. Jack did as he was told, and Alfred felt relieved to see them safely inside. He looked around to see Harry. He too looked frightfully cold. Alfred could not have it on his conscience to send the boy out again. As he thought about what to do, Septimus rode up and helped Mrs. Smythe off the horse and into the house. He returned to hear Alfred say to Harry, “We need you to stay here and secure these horses then go report to Grandpapa and get further instructions.” Alfred hoped the assignment was enough to keep Harry safely at the house.

“Yes, Uncle Alfred, Sir,” was the reply.

For a moment, Alfred and Septimus stood in the doorway of the passage. Now, they were down two men and short on time. There was none to waste. They were growing colder by the second. They desperately shook their limbs and stamped their feet in attempt to revive sensation and fend off the stabs of icy phantom knives. They listened for the sounds of horses and heard none. Rhys and the other grooms had not yet come up. There was no telling whether they remained waiting or were in trouble. Septimus turned to Alfred, “Are you up for one more?” 

Alfred tried to consider the facts of time and temperature clearly, but his head was too muddled for reason, and the impulses of honour and adrenaline won out. “I’m game,” he said, placing his foot behind him.

“Go!” shouted Septimus, and again they were sprinting down the path, gravel crunching, ice pelting their soaked bodies. By the time they reached the stable, they were out of breath and shaking. The water was now up to their waists with all manner of objects slamming into each other with each incoming wave. Rhys and the other grooms were mounted, waiting, and there were two horses remaining. Alfred heaved himself onto the saddle, his numb limbs no longer entirely under his command. Septimus did the same, and with a shout of “Hah!” the riders were galloping back to the house.

********************

Wilhelmina’s head was spinning. People were running everywhere yet time seemed to slow to a crawl. Her stomach knotted with every thought of Alfred out in the storm. She forced herself to concentrate on being useful. She was receiving a stack of blankets when William and Cadogan burst back into the hall. They were soaked from head to toe and shivering. She handed a blanket to each of them. They ran over to the Marquess, who had made his way down the stairs and stood in the center of the room by a large round oak table. The cacophony of the sea and the storm raged beyond the house, and Wilhelmina could only hear a fraction of what they were saying. Still, the words “complete disaster” and “rising fast” made their way to her ears. 

The Marquess called for Briggs and addressed him with William and Cadogan. Adelaide had gone to be by her husband’s side. They were organizing to empty the stores. Adelaide spoke up, “Papa, I have so little to do. Give me two men and we shall bring up the collections.” For the first time, the general broke his cool demeanor. He glared at his daughter. “Bloody Hell Adelaide!” he shouted, “The last thing I care about at this moment is the collections. We have people in danger and a winter’s worth of food and all of the ledgers to salvage. There will be plenty to do with your mother soon enough, but if you insist on abandoning that cause, you can port bushel baskets like everyone else!” Adelaide reddened at the scolding then turned with her husband to follow William and Briggs downstairs.

Another moment of relative calm descended on the hall. Adelaide and the Marchioness had gone, but Wilhelmina stood frozen opposite the Marquess, waiting for some task or instruction. She saw little Arthur creep up to tug on his grandfather’s coat. “I want to help Grandpapa,” he said.

The Marquess thought a moment, then, lacing his commanding tone with softness, he addressed the boy, “Arthur, I’ve had no account of the dogs. There should be seven – five hounds and two spaniels. They should be in the library. The spaniels like to hide under my desk. I want to you to go count them and report back as fast as you can.” Arthur beamed with pride and ran off toward the library.

Just then, Jack came running into the hall with a little boy. Both were shivering furiously. Wilhelmina covered them with blankets. She started to lead them to the Octagon Room, but Jack would not go without speaking to his grandfather. He could barely get any words out for his shivering. From behind, Wilhelmina heard Harry’s voice. “Go on Jack. Find Mama. I’ll take care of the report.” Wilhelmina saw a woman rush over and pick up the boy. She handed the woman a blanket and took them quickly to the Octagon Room. As soon as she saw Frances, she released them and ran back to the oak table, desperate to hear what had happened to Alfred. Harry had pulled a blue and grey tartan blanket tight around his shoulders and was telling of the rescue. 

“Where are Alfred and Septimus now?” asked the Marquess.

“They went for another run,” replied Harry.

“Those reckless idiots!” exclaimed the Marquess, his tone more full of fearful love than anger. “We’ve put twenty-two minutes in the rear. A person cannot withstand the cold that long.” He turned to Wilhelmina and said with a restrained and measured tone, “Go find the Marchioness and bring her here.” Something about his exquisite calm terrified Wilhelmina, and she ran as quickly as she could back to the Octagon Room. She peered in to see the Anglesey women tending to a score of distressed tenants in various states of undress, the indecency outmatched by the emergency. 

“Mama,” Wilhelmina called quietly, trying to imitate the Marquess’s calm. The Marchioness left her charge and walked over. “The Marquess requests your presence.” A flash of worry fell over the Marchioness’s face as she stepped ahead of Wilhelmina and hurried to the hall. Wilhelmina followed closely behind. They passed Harry going the other way. When they got to the oak table, they were alone with the Marquess. 

He took Charlotte’s hands and looked into her eyes. “The boys have been out too long,” he said, “If they make it back, you will need to be ready.” Wilhelmina saw Charlotte close her eyes and steel herself, a mannerism she had seen in Alfred so many times. 

“How much time?” she asked.

“Six minutes, maybe eight.”

“Six minutes,” she whispered, closing her eyes again, thinking, planning. When she opened them, she took Wilhelmina by the arm and sat her down on the grand stairs. She spoke with the same calm the Marquess had intoned. “Dear, our hour has arrived.” Wilhelmina nodded her head and closed her eyes to stifle tears. This was no time to abandon herself to emotion. “You must be brave and work swiftly. They shall be alright so long as we can warm them quickly, but not too much so. _When_ ,” she emphasized the word as if willing its certainty, “the men return, you shall take Alfred, and I shall see to Septimus. Take him to his room. You must get him out of his wet clothes. He will have a knife on him. Cut them off if you need to. You will have blankets, warm compresses, and hot drinks – use everything at your disposal to bring his temperature up. Do not pay attention to the extremities, though they be frightful, it is the main of the body that is your concern. Do you understand, Dear?” 

Wilhelmina was amazed. She wondered how the Marchioness knew so well what to do. She put the distracting thought aside. In her mind, she reviewed her instructions. Only then was the impropriety of what she must do clear. She hesitated slightly and flushed as she and answered, “Yes ma’am.”

The Marchioness noticed her expression. She grabbed Wilhelmina’s hand and squeezed it, giving her a direct look at the same time. “You wish to dismiss with virtue. Now is your chance,” she said, pulling Wilhelmina up off the stair and leading her to the door where she expected the men to arrive. They waited there for an interminable amount of time, each in a state of readiness, no more to prepare, no more to say, the continual thundering of the sea and the storm pounding in their ears. Wilhelmina sent up a desperate prayer. All the while, the general stood at his post directing the effort while various members of the family and staff came and went. Not a person was idle save Wilhelmina and the Marchioness, watching, waiting. 

Suddenly, the door opened, letting in a gust of icy wind. Alfred and Septimus staggered through it and collapsed on the floor. Their hair and eyelashes were caked with ice, their lips a frightful blue, their bodies shivering uncontrollably. Their mother swooped over them, removed their hats, and kissed their heads as she offered them each an arm. The tiny woman leaned back, leveraging all her weight to pull the men to their feet. Quickly, she pulled off Septimus’s gloves and coat. Wilhelmina rushed to Alfred’s side and followed her lead. Then, she ducked under his soaking, cold arm to place it over her shoulder. “Come,” she said, leading him to the stairs. “Can you manage?” she asked.

“Mmhmm,” was the only reply. As they ascended the stairs, the weight on Wilhelmina’s shoulder grew. Alfred’s breath became more and more shallow, the shivers slowing to odd bursts. She looked over to see his eyes drowsing. She tugged on his hand and squeezed his torso. From behind, she heard the Marquess shouting, “Stay with us boys!” She began to falter, as Alfred failed to support himself. She nearly cried out for help but was stopped by a sudden surge of energy. She could not tell from where it came. It felt external, but there was no one else, only the Marquess at the table below and the Marchioness guiding Septimus several stairs behind. Suddenly, her burden felt lighter, yet Alfred was no more alert or helpful than before. She had no time to contemplate mysteries and pressed on, relieved that she could.

From the top of the stairs, there was a mercifully short passage to Alfred’s room. Wilhelmina took him inside. She glanced around the room to see a stack of fine woolen carthen, softly woven with their colorful Caernarvon patterns, folded on the end of the bed. Candles were lit in the sconces and a fire blazed, making warm shadows flicker along the walls and on the copper kettle that had been placed beside several compresses on the hearth to keep warm. She sat Alfred down on the bed and felt the strange energy dissipate as quickly as it had come. She thought no more about it, focused as she was on the dreadful task at hand. She pulled off his boots. The knife the Marchioness had promised clattered out. She tried to pull off his shirt, but he slumped over. “Alfred, Alfred! Don’t fall asleep!” she cried. He opened his bleary eyes and looked at her with complete confusion. He would be no help. Wilhelmina sucked in her breath. Her familiar mantra rang in her head. _Love and courage_. She took the knife in her hand and slid it under Alfred’s shirt. The fine linen made a high-pitched rip as she tore it off. Next, she set to work on his breeches. The thicker fabric, soaked and clinging, was harder to cut. Alfred gave a violent shiver, and the knife slipped and cut her palm. Blood oozed. Frantically, she grabbed a scrap of Alfred’s shirt and tied it around her hand. The saltwater stung sharply as she pulled the bandage tight. She returned to her knifework – first one side, then the other. Finally, she had him stripped to nothing. 

For a split second, Wilhelmina was startled. She had never seen a naked man, not in the flesh. It struck her that his form was not so different from the marble sculptures in the British Museum. Yet, a living man should not have such an unnaturally pale grey colour, should not be lying with his body contorted sideways on the bed, legs and hideous blue feet dangling over the side. She remembered her purpose and returned to action, throwing the wet scraps of clothing away from the bed and reaching for the blankets, which she layered on top of him and used to dry his hair. His breath was coming in shallow gasps, as she took a compress and pressed it against his head. She spoke to him softly, begging him to warm up, to stay awake. Nothing seemed to change. Surely, he should be responding, color should be returning to his lips. What more could she do?

Acting on instinct, she dropped her dressing gown to the floor and climbed onto the bed. She dragged Alfred to its center and laid down next to him under the blankets, bringing her own body against his such that the only thing between them was the thin linen and lace of her night dress. She took his frightening lips in hers and kissed them until they no longer felt cold. When she pulled back to see that they were pink instead of blue, she got up to change the compress, then returned to hold him tightly for untold minutes until finally his breathing became more regular, all the while talking to him and trying to get him to respond. He answered only with incoherent murmurs, but it was enough to keep him conscious. After a while, he began to form real words. “The boy. How is the boy?” he asked as though from a bleary distance.

“He is with his mother,” she answered. “I believe he is quite alright.”

“And Sept? … and Rhys, and the grooms?” 

“I am sure they are alright too,” she said, hoping it was true. “Your mother and sisters are caring for them. Alfred, do you know where you are?” Alfred rolled his head to glance around. 

“I seem to be in my bedroom,” he said, his voice becoming steadier.

“And do you know what has happened?”

He shut his eyes deliberately and reached up to rub them. He was surprised to feel his hands were cool and tingly and blinked his lids open to stare at them. He looked up at Wilhelmina. “We brought the Smythes up out of the flood. And the horses. It was so very cold. Is everyone all right?” he asked again.

“I am sure they are quite alright,” she said again patiently. “You and Septimus had the worst of it. Here,” she directed him to sit up against the pillows and prepared for him a mug of warm honey water, “Drink this.” He did as instructed and looked across the room to see his shredded clothes. He stared at Wilhelmina, still only in her night dress, with a bloody bandage on her hand. Slowly, he started to piece together what had happened.

“You’ve cut your hand,” he said, bewildered.

“Oh, yes, I suppose I did,” answered Wilhelmina looking down at the ragged scrap of linen. She had forgotten all about it, and now slipped off the bandage to examine her palm. The cut was not too deep and had stopped bleeding. “It’s nothing,” she said. She climbed up on the bed and sat next to Alfred, pulling her knees up to her chest and twining her fingers in his salty tousled hair. She brought her hand to the back of his neck, laying her palm flat and stroking it gently across his muscular shoulders and down his back, continually checking to see that he was warm. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

Alfred took the question as though it referred to someone else and he should not necessarily know the answer. He had not yet considered what his mind and body had endured. He scanned himself, scrunching up his toes, feeling the softness of the carthen on his naked skin, and running his fingers through his hair. He looked at Wilhelmina expectantly, like a pupil hoping his answer would not be wrong. “I think I am alright,” he said. She let out the breath she had been holding, closed her eyes slowly, and allowed a relieved smile to cross her face. Alfred returned her smile, brought his hand to her face, and added, “thanks to you it would seem.”

Wilhelmina felt tears brim up over her eyelids. She did not want them. She wished to remain as strong as she had been these past few hours and avoid a silly display, but the stored emotion could not be contained, and the tears spilled out over her cheeks. Alfred wiped them away and put his arms around her burying her head in his bare chest. “I was frightened,” she whispered, “so terribly frightened.” 

“Yet, my darling, it appears we have weathered the storm,” he replied. For a long moment, they said nothing more as they rested against each other, aimlessly tracing their fingers over the contours of cheeks and ears, shoulders, and collar bones. Alfred felt himself beginning to drift to sleep. He stretched himself out and pulled a pillow under his head. Wilhelmina disentangled herself and placed a gentle kiss on his head. “You rest, my love,” she said. He slept while, into the wee hours, she kept watch until she could fight exhaustion no more and fell asleep beside him.

*************************

Morning broke reluctantly from behind a sheath of thick clouds. The violence of the storm had passed but a steady, sleety rain persisted. The house party was undisturbed by the skulking, gloomy daylight and slept through mid-morning before lazily drifting to the comfort of the Saloon. No one – save the Duchess, who had risen early, heard every waking footstep, and kindly ignored them all – seemed to notice from which door Wilhelmina had emerged. Now, in a state of detached intimacy, the family lounged on sofas and chairs and ate from a spread of tea and warm breakfast whilst all too casually recapitulating the events of the previous night. Understated observations of “Jolly good,” and “Well done,” and “I’ve seen worse” flowed around the room, as though they might have just barely won a hard-fought cricket match. Mundane questions of which rooms would be converted to house the stored goods, what repairs would need to be made, and how long the tenants might need to stay in the house were asked and answered. William and the Marquess got up to peer from the window at the sea wall, William reassessing his midnight observations. Adelaide set a table for cards. Harry and Jack rolled onto the floor to give the dogs a good scratch. Alfred, looking very much himself, was perched on a cushion by the hearth, reading some antique-looking book. He appeared content in his own world, so Wilhelmina sat down next to the Marchioness who, gesturing toward him, said, “Well done, dear. I see you’ve pulled him through.”

“Thank you, Mama,” said Wilhelmina uncertainly, not knowing how else to respond to such wildly understated commentary. She could hardly contain herself at the memory of the terrifying night. “It was all quite harrowing. Never in my life…” she trailed off, unsure of how to put the experience into words.

“Harrowing indeed!” the Marchioness agreed with a laugh. “But only the sort of thing that happens when one lives by the sea.” Her cheerful dismissal might have convinced Wilhelmina she was completely unphased, but there lingered with her a nearly imperceptible alertness to her children. She glanced back at Alfred then at the doorway where at that moment Septimus ambled through, last to arrive, his left hand heavily bandaged against a wooden splint, a hangdog expression worn behind a mess of untamed curls.

“Ah, good show Septimus!” called his father.

“Not my best Papa,” replied Septimus, sounding annoyed. “I broke my bloody hand!” 

Emily and Mary looked at each other and rolled their eyes – at the cursing Wilhelmina supposed – then recommenced their conversation. Septimus ignored them, helped himself to a glass of whiskey, flopped on a sofa, and tauntingly pressed Adelaide to prepare his breakfast with exaggerated claims of invalidity. Alfred glanced up long enough to give him a wry but knowing look, and Septimus met his eyes along the lines of some secret code that required no further conversation. 

To Wilhelmina, the entire scene was incongruous to what she was sure everyone in the room had experienced just hours ago. She was astonished by the nonchalance of the Paget clan. She might have thought the whole incident a mad dream but for the tiny purple splotches remaining on Alfred’s lips and eyelids. Yet, she reflected, this was hardly the most outlandish nor catastrophic thing the family had endured. Perhaps, they had simply grown accustomed to inhabiting a perspective of remove, a view from which horror could seem unreal and therefore made light. She had never before considered how an embrace of sheer absurdity might serve as a method for carrying on, how it made for a cohesive meeting place for a large group full of strong personalities. She supposed, like Alfred, they each had their singular ways of facing misfortune, of discretely relying on their most intimate confidants. After all, she did not know what private conversations took place behind each bedroom door. Though this line of thought did not lessen her amazement, she at least felt satisfied she was beginning to understand the company she was set to join.

True to Wilhelmina’s observations, by mid-afternoon, the party was already growing restless. The rain was unrelenting, and reports came in from villagers that roads had been washed out. It became clear no one would be leaving for at least a few days. By teatime, malaise hung thick. There was a tedious lull in conversation, broken by an exuberant burst from Adelaide. “I know! Let’s have a play! We can set up the Music Room like old times and entertain the tenants.”

“Adelaide, those people have lost their homes. I suspect their worry greatly outweighs their boredom,” said Alfred.

“Well, we shall distract them then. Oh, Alfred, be a sport. Let’s do Electra! Surely, you remember your part?” Adelaide glanced at him for an answer, but her eyes did not look for his and conveyed a command rather than a question. Clearly, she would not be deterred.

“Very well,” Alfred relented with a sigh of preemptive defeat. 

“Mama,” said Adelaide, “shall I ask Briggs to bring down the sets and costumes?”

“Not until tomorrow, dear. The staff must have a day’s rest,” replied the Marchioness.

“Oh, of course. How thoughtless of me. Well, I shall help myself to finding the scripts. It would not hurt to review our parts for an evening.” With that, she swept out of the room.

Wilhelmina turned to Alfred with a quizzical expression. He anticipated her query, remembering she had no context for Anglesey traditions. “When we were young,” he said, “if the weather were foul, we would entertain the house parties by putting on plays.” He paused as Wilhelmina’s face became skeptical. “It is great fun really. Everyone gets involved in one way or another.” Wilhelmina now looked slightly alarmed. “Oh, do not presume you shall be relieved. Adelaide will surely give you a part.” He wore that mischievous smile that told Wilhelmina he would provide no quarter. She too would have to give in. She really was joining this family and must not keep her feet out of the fire. Her general bewilderment of them was unabated by the choice of play. How cheeky to perform the tale of children murdering their adulterous parents – one more way to make light of difficulty she supposed, tossing out any last notions of reason.

Adelaide returned and began making assignments. She, of course, would play Electra opposite Alfred’s Orestes. Septimus would assume his usual role as Pylades, Orestes’s boon companion, and likewise the Marchioness for the mother Clytemnestra. To Wilhelmina she assigned the sister Chrysothemis, a move, so it seemed, she was meant to take as a complement. A row ensued over the remaining parts, as the Marquess insisted the torch be passed to the younger generations and William begged off, seeming distinctly less comfortable with the subject matter. His sons, however – in the throes of hero worship for their brave uncles – were eager to be initiated into the tradition, and the conflict was soon resolved. The evening passed with everyone engrossed in memorizing and practicing lines and arguing over how the stage ought to be arranged.

The next day, various servants erected an elaborate set in the Music Room and placed chairs for the presumably honored audience. Imaginatively revealing costumes were distributed and props polished up. Tea was served ad hoc to allow more time for rehearsal. It would seem the Pagets took their productions quite seriously. Dinner proceeded with the usual formality, and then it was time.

Lanterns strung across the stage and placed at its foot illuminated the painted backdrop showing pastoral hills and two outsized Doric columns intended to represent the palace of the Pelopidae. Two further columns, cast in plaster, stood at the front of the stage alongside potted palms, which had materialized from the hothouse. Emily and Mary, serving as the chorus, were placed to the outside of the columns where they could face the audience or turn inward toward the scene. There was a din of anticipation as somewhat skeptical and uncomfortable tenants and servants took their seats. The Duchess and the Marquess along with William and Frances entered, gave hellos and handshakes to various people, then took theirs in the front row. Adelaide called for silence with a direction to extinguish the candles lit around the room, then gave a little speech introducing the play. 

There was a moment of quiet before Harry, Alfred, and Septimus entered from the left. Though Septimus had no lines, he gestured demonstratively, fawning over Alfred’s Orestes in a rather bawdy and foppish manner. Wilhelmina was sure he meant to throw Alfred off his game with a bit of good-natured rattling, but Alfred would not be distracted. In fact, he was brilliant. He embodied the character with all the gravity and expression one would expect at the theatre. As for Septimus, whatever his intention, he sent the little crowd to guffaws, mercifully putting its members at ease. Adelaide too fed off the audience, giving a splendidly dramatic performance. Unsurprisingly, she lacked Alfred’s subtlety, but not a person seemed displeased. Wilhelmina tried her best to keep up. By the time she had finished her part, she could admit to enjoying the thrill and hung to the side of the stage with a broad smile as she watched the final scenes play out.

The audience cheered the performers as they took their bows. While one could hardly expect they would do otherwise, their faces seemed full of genuine enjoyment. Perhaps dramatic tragedy had a way of putting one’s troubles in perspective, or maybe a simple distraction was needed after all. Whatever the reason, the act of giving and receiving the play had the effect of bonding the members of the estate – lords and ladies, tenants and staff alike – in a finer purpose than having shared disaster alone. Further, it gave the tenants an informal venue to share their losses with the Marquess and be assured of his commitment to rebuild. Even the Duchess was impressed. There were calls for an encore the following evening, and in the end, they performed the play three more times, each with a larger audience of villagers and neighbors, as roads began to reopen. 

On the last night, someone brought instruments, and an impromptu dance broke out. “Just like old times!” heard Wilhelmina more than once. She danced with Alfred – not the formal way they danced at court but with abandon, with life – and with Septimus and even stodgy old William. At one point, the Marquess pulled her aside. “Miss Coke,” he said, “It would appear we have put you through a trial. If it is not already clear to you, you have passed the test. You will make a fine lieutenant.” Wilhelmina could not have received a greater compliment. She beamed and thanked him with a curtsy and a spontaneous kiss on the cheek.

**************************

Three weeks had passed since Alfred, Wilhelmina and the Duchess had arrived at Plas Newydd. After the excitement of the play, the house party settled into a more relaxed state, giving their days to various tasks and correspondence, their evenings to reading, playing games and music, and a never ceasing hum of conversation. The fickle coast saw daily if not hourly changes in weather, mists and sun, cold and warm, and one thick wet snowstorm that melted almost as fast as it had fallen. Slowly, work was done to repair the damages of the flood. A crew of staff and tenants shored up the sea wall. It would hold until proper masons could be brought in. The cottages were cleaned and repaired and their residents happily returned, all but the Smythes whose home would need to be demolished and rebuilt. They stayed on at the house, little Charlie becoming fast friends with Mary’s Arthur. The interior of the stable was a shambles and irreparable until lumber could be brought in, so Alfred and Septimus spent a great deal of time taking horses to neighboring estates to be boarded. The time together was good for them both. On warm days, Wilhelmina accompanied the Marchioness out into her gardens to assess what injuries they had seen and plan for their revival in the approaching Spring. She found she enjoyed thinking though the problems of structure and function as much as those of aesthetics and even offered a few intuitive suggestions the Marchioness found helpful. As more roads began to open, Alfred’s siblings trickled out, returning to their homes, schools, ships, and commitments, promising to reconvene in London in April. Only Septimus remained, dictating his letters, claiming the dubious need to recuperate at length from his pitiable injury.

At last, papers and letters arrived from London, and the party – now down to six – spent the morning going through them. Alfred and his father commenced a tedious debate over railway financing until Wilhelmina interrupted. “Oh look!” she said, smiling and pointing at the back of the page Alfred was holding. He turned it over as she came around to stand behind him. “It appears you’ve made the papers.” The headline read:

WINTER CYCLONE SLAMS WESTERN COAST  
_Thirteen Lives Lost at Point of Ayr_  
_Daring Rescue at Plas Newydd_

“How delightful,” said Alfred with no small amount of sarcasm. He wondered internally how news of his deeds on holiday managed to make it to the London press when letters from the queen herself were delayed the other way. At least the article made him and Septimus look the gallant heroes. Her Majesty would be pleased for the publicity and perhaps less perturbed at his staying away so long. He finished reading and handed the paper across the table to his mother.

“I cannot imagine why anyone wants to read about a house flood,” she said, though her expression conveyed she knew exactly why and shone with pride in her boys as she exchanged a conspiratorial glance with Wilhelmina.

Alfred finished with the papers and turned to the stack of letters he had been putting off. On the top was one from Her Majesty. In it she offered her sympathies – and as he expected, fond congratulations – for the storm and odd bits of personal news. A few well-worded complaints regarding the administration let him know she was eager to have him back. He looked up at Wilhelmina. “Wils Darling,” he said, flapping the letter, “if the papers can get in, I dare say we can get out, and we need to be going back to London. Duchess, I am sure you have had quite enough of the Welsh coast, have you not?”

“Lord Alfred, I am not one to give up hospitality,” she nodded a kind smile toward the Marchioness with whom an unlikely but fond friendship had developed, “but I agree, there is much to be done before April.”

“How right you are,” he replied with a tap of his hand on the table. “We shall leave the day after tomorrow.” The prospect of concluding the visit reminded him he had shared precious little time alone with Wilhelmina. He had hoped to show her the treasured places of his youth, and they had not yet properly discussed what had happened in the storm. He knew the following day would be filled with packing and farewells and perhaps one last ride with Septimus. He looked out the window. The day seemed fair, the sun bright. “It occurs to me,” he announced to the group, “I have not given my fiancée a proper tour of the place. If we may, I would like to take our tea outside this afternoon. Would you like that my darling?”

“It sounds splendid,” answered Wilhelmina.

“Of course, dear,” said the Marchioness. “I will have Mrs. Roberts prepare a basket. You can take Septimus with you.” 

Septimus looked up, pretending to be perturbed at having been recruited. The Marquess, who appeared not to have been paying attention, cleared his throat from behind his paper, “Septimus,” he said, “while you are out, check the North wall. I don’t believe anyone has been up there since the storm.” Septimus looked back and forth between his mother and father in half-serious disbelief that they should assign him tasks as though he were a boy and not an officer in Her Majesty’s cavalry. The Marquess and Marchioness kept a straight face while Wilhelmina stifled giggles. Alfred clapped Septimus on the back, shot him a gloating look, and jauntily left the room.

*****************************

After luncheon, Alfred, Wilhelmina and Septimus set off through the gardens. As they entered the woodland beyond, Septimus abruptly turned onto a steep, muddy trail leading down to the beach. Wilhelmina looked after him with an alarmed expression. “North wall’s that way,” he said with sly smile and a jerk of his thumb. Then he turned and disappeared down the path. 

Having dispensed with the pretense of a chaperone, Alfred commenced the tour. He began in his formal, very upright manner, often pointing the way with sweeping gestures while directing Wilhelmina to pass in front of him. He told her long remembered and half-forgotten stories full of fancy and poignance, tied as they were to the secret landmarks of childhood. He made Wilhelmina laugh hysterically, and shake her head in disbelief, and want to bind up the wounds of falls out of trees and misunderstood young love under them. She stopped playing the tourist and insisted he take her arm. As he did, he began to ease into a more relaxed mode. He showed her the hidden trail that led to the stable, the way one could slip out without being seen along the road. From the stable down to the beach, then up the rocky path where gorse filled the hillside with its sulfur blooms and rich scent of toasted coconut. 

At the top of the path, he stopped on the dome of a rounded hill, where smooth wind-worn boulders broke through the soil as though they had been placed there just for sitting. The expansive view looked out over the Menai to the hills beyond, down on the house to one side, and on the other, the point with its gently breaking waves and old stone windmill. The sun shone in the Western sky, higher and stronger than it had been, a promise that Winter would make the turn to Spring. Alfred spread out a blanket, the same course blue and grey tartan Wilhelmina had seen wrapped around Harry on the night of the storm. She could hardly believe its transformation from that desperate purpose to one so genteel. Wilhelmina sat on her hip with her skirts gathered around her. Alfred stood apart, on top of the tallest boulder, surveying the land, taking in a solitary moment before coming to join her. He stopped and looked at the whole of her, the woman soon to be his wife. He was proud of her and still in awe of her strength and courage, more so now that she had run the Paget gauntlet. He wanted to be close to her, to give her his sincere affection, to have her believe in it. He sat down right beside her so that she might lean against him. They rested this way a long while in serene stillness, the only movements those of gentle fingers twining and untwining, dreamily exploring as they traced slow faint lines around unfamiliar contours.

Alfred felt as contented as he could remember and wished to linger in suspended time, denying the sun’s deepening colour and steadily marching reflections on the water. He was absorbed in the closeness of their being, in the sense of belonging to one another. Gradually, without conscious thought, he began kissing her. There was no rush of excitement, no tremulous question, only contentment. Wilhelmina returned his kisses, at last not taken by surprise that they should come, enjoying the pleasure of the sensation and following it with a kind of instinct she had not known she possessed. Thoughts of what they had been through together and what she had learned of him here in the place of his upbringing floated across the back of her mind. She now understood how he could be shocked by real things yet come to crave them, how he separated his private self from the one he gave away, how intimacy with him was a rare privilege never to be taken for granted.

A salty breeze blew up off the water, making Wilhelmina shiver. Alfred pulled her closer and wrapped his arms around her from behind. She leaned back and tilted her head to look up at him. “Alfred, I wish to thank you for bringing me here,” she said, “for the chance to know your family. I must admit, I was quite overwhelmed at first, but now it feels as though they will be my family too. I think you know what that means to me,” she paused and drew her hand along his cheek, “And you. I believe I understand you now in a way I never could have. I thought I knew you before, but these past weeks have shown me more than I could have imagined, you with your kin, with your own sea and soil and hidden talents.”

“Hidden talents?” Alfred raised a curious eyebrow. 

Wilhelmina sat up and reached into the basket for the tea and cakes. “For one, I was quite unaware how accomplished a performer you are,” she said, then reflecting on the observation, added, “though I suppose I should have guessed.”

“All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players,” Alfred quipped in return. Wilhelmina looked at him curiously, wondering if his intention was to deflect the compliment or to make a deeper point. He read her question and answered, “I dare say I am neither the first nor last person at court to traffic in stagecraft. Civilization itself is a performance. Imagine if it were not.”

“I suppose we should go back to being warring tribes of barbarians,” replied Wilhelmina with a sigh. “I will admit there is a thrill in bending the perceptions of uncharitable boors, but Alfred, I tire of it. I would rather prefer to be at liberty. To act as I please and give voice to whichever odd things reside within my mind without fear of castigation. How many people hold back their honesty for fear?”

“All of them,” he answered. “Though I would not say it is not dishonest so long as one’s aim is to secure the comfort of one’s compatriots and one does not deceive oneself.”

“Hmm,” she considered skeptically, “Do you not find it trying? Constantly mediating between the private and the public? To be one man here and another in London?”

“Perhaps I would,” he said with a mix of defensiveness and defiance, “were it not that I am no more myself in one aspect than the other. Would you not agree we all have different facets to employ when they are useful? I dare say, you were a variant of yourself these last weeks.” 

“Yes, I suppose I was,” Wilhelmina conceded, not feeling satisfied. She stewed a moment longer, looking plaintive, then added in frustration, “Oh, but I cannot help but wonder which version is the true one.”

“Why should you be required to choose?” Alfred asked kindly. He hated to see her distress and wished he could help her find the peace he had in ambiguity. “One can be wholly one thing and wholly another at the same time. I believe I shall always have one foot in Anglesey and one in the rest of my life. And you, my darling shall share them both,” he said, patting her knee an placing a peck of a kiss on her lips to close the discussion. Wilhelmina accepted his claim and put her angst aside for another day.

The sun was now a crimson orb hovering along the ridgeline. It stained the whole firmament a dusky rose, the way one only sees in a Winter sky. It coloured their faces but no longer sparkled on the flat black water and withdrew its promising warmth. Alfred got up and pulled Wilhelmina to her feet, knowing cold darkness would come quickly now. He packed up their things and returned to hold her as they watched the last of the deep pink glow slip behind the hills. He took her hand and started to lead her back to the path, but she resisted and fixed him to the spot with that look of mixed apprehension and daring. She squeezed his hand as she said, “Alfred, in all this time, I have never told you I love you. Not aloud. I feared if I said it, something might shatter.”

“My darling, there was never any need to raise your voice. You have shown me love beyond words,” he paused to look into her eyes, to kiss her again. “The night of the storm, I was at the brink, wasn’t I? No one has said so, but I can see it in their eyes … in your eyes.” She nodded, fighting tears at the memory. “You revived me, perhaps saved my life. Someone would have, of course, but not the way you did.” He pulled her in and held her tight. “Even after I came around, you remained,” he paused again, as though revisiting a dream. “What more could I ask of love than waking up with you beside me?” He touched her face, pressed a kiss on her ear and whispered, “Will you come to me again? Tonight, when the fires have died low, will you come?” She drew back and scrunched her shoulders, trying to appear coy, but the daring had returned to her eyes, and a tickled smile would not stay away from her lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, did they or didn't they? What do you think?
> 
> *************************************************
> 
> Floriography:
> 
> For the Victorian gentlemen, an amaryllis symbolized a strong, self-confident, and beautiful woman.
> 
> Historical Notes:
> 
> There was an actual boating disaster in January of 1847 off Point of Ayr in Wales - it must have been a thing, because it is mentioned as one of the major headlines of that year - no idea if it had anything to do with the weather.
> 
> “Electra” is among the most important of the Greek tragedies with versions by Sophocles and Euripides (we do not know which version they are using here). It has many (pre)feminist overtones and addresses issues of grief, revenge, and justice.
> 
> “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players” – William Shakespeare – “As You Like It”


	6. Awake the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A blissful Alfred and Wilhelmina return to London to find even the most accomplished tightrope walkers sometimes fall into the net. But is that all that's going on...?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we are back to London ... haunting turn of phrase, no?

At first light, Alfred, Wilhelmina, and the Duchess of Buccleuch made their farewells and set off on the journey back East. The rising sun was like a great industrial magnet pulling them toward London, the loud clatter of the carriages like a factory machine turning the raw material of every instant to memories available in both hazy and vivid varieties. One by one, the landmarks were consumed – the great stone house with its waving figures in the doorway, the half-timbered stable, the hills of fragrant gorse, the capricious Menai, and the island itself. Now the mountains that separated the realm of Anglesey from all that lay eastward were stockpiled in the rear view, finished products of the memory machine.

The weather had turned to bitter cold that seeped into the carriage from every possible opening. Wilhelmina and the Duchess sat together bundled in cloaks and blankets to multiply their warmth while Alfred sat opposite wearing his heavy blue and red uniform coat, a packet of correspondence next to him on the empty seat. He eased into a warm smile, reaching across the carriage to hold Wilhelmina’s hands, a last gesture of serenity to conclude their holiday. The Duchess turned to gaze out the window, finding sudden interest in the drab winter scenery. She felt accomplished at having done her part to broker the partnership to which she now feigned inattention, and she was pleased to see it progressing. She smiled to herself, amused at what a derelict chaperone she had become. She was not ashamed. She had earned the right to employ her own good judgement. To her mind, it was a matter of odds, and she thought it best to stack them in favor of deep bonds and blissful union. 

For some minutes, Alfred and Wilhelmina hovered together in that mid-journey netherworld where the holiday mood has faded and jumpy thoughts of what is next begin springing in the mind. Soon, they would need to turn their attentions to all of the matters demanding them in the next nine weeks. There was much to discuss. As if to push the agenda, the carriage struck a rut, dumping the pile of letters into the floor. Alfred picked them up and began sorting through them. He opened one with the royal seal and began to read. A look of irritation crossed his face. He laid the letter in his lap and said, “His Highness informs me they intend to open the House of Lords in the new Westminster the week after our wedding. It would seem absolutely everyone will be in town. The Season will start early, and I do not know how we are to avoid a big affair.”

Wilhelmina laughed. “Then a big affair we shall have. It would be so with your family alone.” Her joke did little to mollify Alfred who seemed resigned to duty over preference. She continued, “Of course, we shall have to put up with my mother too, and my brothers if they can be troubled to come. I give you fair warning. She shall not have one kind word to say and will either impose her misfortunes upon everyone or sulk in a corner trading gossip with the Marchioness of Lothian.” Wilhelmina could not keep the bitterness out of her voice, and the uncharacteristic tone drew Alfred’s attention. He shot her a pained look. The pain was on her behalf, but she mistook it. “Oh, Alfred, I’m sorry!” she said. “Will it be hard on you to have Florence and her family there? It would be quite irregular not to invite them. They are rather old friends of the family.”

“I would be more troubled to have a light on their exclusion.” he replied. “I dare say, the whole ritual is for Society’s benefit, not our own.” He took her hands again and shot her a playful glance and an affectionate smile that recalled the midnight prior and reinforced the view that he would be pleased to take or leave whatever formalities called themselves necessary. Wilhelmina giggled. Her aunt shifted in her seat and caught Alfred’s eye.

“Lord Alfred,” she said, “Would you kindly make a show of remembering yourself?” Alfred suppressed laughter and sat back. The Duchess continued, “Now, this opening. I suspect you will be kept quite to the task. You were assisting His Highness in the endevour as I recall.”

Alfred resumed a businesslike demeanour and answered, “Yes Duchess. There are quite a few personalities involved, and Her Majesty prefers His Highness not be left the entire burden of diplomacy.”

“There is hope for wisdom yet,” quipped the Duchess. 

And so, the conversation continued, vacillating between the tedium of the new administration to the excitement of future plans, punctuated by long pleasant silences and refreshing stops, until the plumes of smoke rising from the great pulsing city came into view.

Pulling up to 42 Grosvenor Place, Wilhelmina again had to remind herself the turn in her life was real. She had passed this house more times than she could count, never suspecting she would one day live there. She was awestruck, gazing out the carriage window, when a footman came to open her door. She stepped out of the carriage and took the short walk to the entrance, noting every detail of the white stone façade, the tiled portico with its Ionic columns and arched doorway, and the high pediment resting atop the fourth story. She stepped inside with Alfred close behind her. The house was warm and the full of artificial light from the new gas lamps that had been installed while they were away. She stepped through the entry and into the reception hall. It was empty but for a pair of chairs with round backs and gracefully carved arms and a similarly elegant console from which sprang a stone urn containing an effusive display of ruffled daffodils in yellows and whites, gracefully nodding helleborus in tea green and every shade of mauve, and arching branches of soft goat willow. Beside the arrangement were coupes of champagne to welcome the three travelers.

The Duchess politely refused the drink, saying she would prefer tea in her room, and took to the stairs before anyone could argue. Alfred and Wilhelmina were left alone to explore the house. The rooms were mostly furnished, some well-appointed, a few needing quite a bit of attention. Half of the top floor was still covered in dust sheets. Wilhelmina was delighted to find that the music room had a piano, polished and tuned, another vase of daffodils placed on top. She sat down to play while Alfred lounged on the sofa enjoying his champagne. To the soft melody, they imagined their evenings might be like this always. It was an unlikely notion of course, but a pleasure to dwell upon if only for a song. When she had finished, their drinks were refilled, and they resumed their tour, climbing the stairs to the great bedchamber that would be theirs. It was to be renovated and strictly unoccupied until after the wedding. Nevertheless, they peered inside.

The room had a four-poster bed with heavy sapphire curtains and not much else in the way of décor. It faced the rear of the house and had French doors opening to a narrow balcony overlooking the courtyard garden. Wilhelmina crossed the room and opened them, letting in the cold air, and then stepped out to see the view. She wrapped her arms around herself. Alfred came up behind her, draped his body around hers, and placed gentle kisses on the back of her neck. “Shall you be pleased enough to take it on, Lady Paget?” he said softly into her ear. She turned around, surprised to hear herself called by the title she would receive. She had not given it much thought – one more marker of change scarcely to be believed. She looked into Alfred’s eyes. They held a certainty that stoked her confidence. Clearly, in his mind, the fate was accomplished. He kept his arms around her, his gaze soft and playful.

“Quite,” she answered with a bashful smile as he pulled her back into the room and shut the doors behind her. His expression turned roguish as he led her over to the bed. He flopped down on top of it and tugged on her hand. She sat next to him and began playing with his hair. “Alfred, we shall be expected for dinner,” she protested half-heartedly.

“Not for another hour,” he countered, reaching out to stroke her arm, bringing her hand to his mouth, pressing kisses into her palm.

“Then shall we defile our marriage bed? Do you not think it somehow unholy?” she asked, her tone facetious but with and edge of real concern. She raised her eyebrows and bit the first knuckle of her left hand in a way that begged an answer opposite the one she knew to be correct.

He sat up, and with theatrical exaggeration, untied the heavy curtains around the bed, allowing them to fall shut. The light became low, the air thick with intimacy. His eyes flashed an affectionate irreverence. “God, grant us our transgressions,” he said.

************************************************

By the time the early crocuses peeked their jaunty purple and white striped heads out from under the box hedges in the courtyard garden, the domestic rhythm of 42 Grosvenor Place was as though it had always been. How easily one could settle into a happy state! How swiftly formed the habits of desire! To Wilhelmina, the terror of insecurity, the awe, and the disbelief became remote vestiges of a former life. She did not forget them, but she was pleased to shut them in a dormant place in the back of her mind. She could scarcely remember, nor did she wish to, what it was like to sleep alone every night. She sent her night dresses, untidy with counterfeit rumples and still smelling of fresh lavender, to the laundry for appearances’ sake and delighted in her personal act of rebellion. Perhaps it was childish petulance, but she rather hoped a tawdry whisper would reach her mother’s ears. 

For Alfred’s part, he reveled in the liberty – no less his for being unfair – to practice imperfect discretion, in the fun of crafting a new mythology. If the voracious public were going to look, he would have them see what he wished. So long as he kept his promise, and he had no intention of doing otherwise, there was no harm in the rumours, not entirely untrue, that he and his bride suffered from impatient passion. It would be a brief and happy scandal to stir the dreary doldrums of late winter. So, as often as he could, he made excuses to be at the house and only half-heartedly hid himself from the early risers as he took the ride across the Palace garden through cloaking fog infused with scattered rays of vermillion sun.

The days were full for each of them. Wilhelmina received a seemingly endless parade of painters, furniture carriers, dressmakers, applicants for service, and sundry other tradesmen involved in setting up a household and putting on a wedding. Gratitude for the Duchess was overflowing, as the matriarch patiently passed on her unparalleled ability to dispatch each question or demand. Her watchword was decisiveness, her aim effortless command. Lapses of self-control were more easily absolved when obligations were graciously met, binding traditions upheld, and conduct otherwise above opinion. Wilhelmina learned quickly and found herself not untalented. If she became overwhelmed, she retreated to the piano or the outdoors to order her thinking and make herself ready to face the next round of responsibility. So that she might smile, Alfred kept her in fresh flowers, sent with charming little notes at unexpected times, almost as if they had a standard courtship. She stopped worrying about the pretense and allowed herself the luxury of unfettered delight. Only a hushed voice in the back of her mind – the one that remembered – quietly stood its guard.

Alfred, having been promoted to Chief Equerry and Clerk Marshall on top of his other duties, spent his days dashing back and forth between the Palaces of Buckingham and Westminster, each bustling with preparations for the opening of the House of Lords. Prince Albert led the committee to choose art for the interior, which required arduous interaction with the architect, Augustus Pugin. The thin pale man wore his dark hair slicked to one side, his face clean-shaven, and his clothing always in somber tones. He rushed around agonizing over details and demanding rework on anything of which he did not approve. His expertise in Gothic architecture seemed driven by a reactionary urge to return to the times of Chaucer and to do away with any remnants of what he called the paganism of the Regency. At times, besotted by penitence for his own youthful sins, he was prone to fits of pedantic rage and lengthy moralistic diatribes should anyone cross his carefully drawn lines of judgement. He irritated Alfred to no end. Yet, it was Alfred’s duty to set a tone of diplomacy and mediate conflict. As that job proved easier than expected – His Highness and Pugin got on remarkably well on the grounds of their agreement that each and every presentation might sway the moral character of its observers and what the general aims of that moral character should be – he adopted a covert mission to defend Britain in the glory of all her eras. He had Victoria’s ear and could subtly persuade her to insist upon the inclusion of works not conforming to Pugin’s rigid ideals, then back Albert when he entered the line of fire. 

After one particularly fraught meeting, Albert drew out the return to Buckingham with an extended ride through the park. “Lord Alfred, I cannot stand another minute of … interior,” he said, imbuing the final word with disgust.

“I always find a good ride the antidote to tedium,” replied Alfred.

“I must thank you for your steadfast support. We must do all we can to bring about completion of the project. The peers must be awed and inspired to contribute to the greatness of the nation. And in only a few weeks. I am concerned they will not finish for all this meticulousness,” said the Prince.

Alfred nodded affirmation but did not add to the Prince’s concern. If even Albert had come to criticize meticulousness, Alfred could hardly argue patience. They rode in silence for several minutes, rounding the outside of the park and heading toward the palace on the Grosvenor side of the garden. Alfred shot an automatic glance at the house, hoping he might get away in time for dinner. His distraction did not go unnoticed.

“Lord Alfred, is that your house?” asked the Prince, pointing across the street.

“Indeed, Sir,” answered Alfred.

“So, it seems we have lost your company short of your nuptials. I understand your room goes quite unoccupied,” said Albert, his light tone edged with prying concern.

Alfred did not take the bait and instead played to one of Albert’s passions. “It seems my parents left the house as it had been in the twenties. There is much to do to bring it up to the standards of our time.”

“A worthy effort. We must lead in the development of our homes. The people look to us as examples.” He directed a pointed, scolding look at Alfred, one that had little to do with building and everything to do with his disapproval. Alfred gave perfunctory acknowledgement even as he dismissed Albert’s overweening sense of propriety. He knew on certain terms Victoria found his happy scandal charming and was pleased enough to have Society talking of something other than the railroad bust or the fraught project at Westminster, and there were no other opinions he cared to entertain. He smiled to himself thinking, _If only His Highness knew what things that room has seen._

The next morning, Alfred sent for crates and trunks. If his absence had reached Albert’s attention, he might as well pack his things. He looked around the room, committing to memory all the details of nearly a decade of habitation. There was the blue and red striped flag of the Household Cavalry he had pinned to the wall like a schoolboy upon arriving as a youthful soldier. He remembered how the room seemed splendid compared to the squalor of the barracks at Knightsbridge, how he hoped he could live up to the expectations that came along with his family name, how he had become fast friends with the equally young and wide-eyed monarch. Those were heady days – children atop an empire, the rules of Society still steeped in the old precedents before anyone thought to call it a new era, entertaining the queen’s suiters and their entourages, the height of his recklessness. He noted the heel-shaped black scuff on the plaster next to the bed, as yet unnoticed and unrepaired, the mark of one brazenly lustful night. 

Times had changed since then, an unmistakable tightening up, tracking alongside his own evolution. The turning points, not always visible as such, had all come in succession. Victoria had clenched her hold on power with her marriage to a Consort most intent on purging libertine disgrace and elevating familial perfection. Lord Melbourne had retired and with him the soul of the Regency generation, a generation in so many ways wiser than his own. People like his parents had built on the political liberty of the Enlightenment and begun opening doors of personal liberty humanity had not seen since Rome. Now men like Pugin and His Highness were closing them all again. Still, the tides of time were not without their gifts. Peel had come to power and brought with him the man who would alter the course of his own life, his very soul, forever. He knew his reasons for never bringing Drummond here. Given the renewed zeal for narrow righteousness, they were sound, even good, but they did little to mitigate the regret he could never quite expel. Recalled pangs of longing and desire took hold, as he wondered what might have happened had he traded slow and subtle guidance for a bold play. Might this room be filled with more and better memories than the solitary dark hours of maddening sorrow? The questions left him in a pensive mood as he carefully packed his treasured remembrances. Now the room was void of personality, stripped of its history, an empty dissociated place. He left and closed the door behind him. 

**********************************

After a day caught in the fog of memory, Alfred arrived at the house with an hour to spare before dinner. Without announcing himself, he took his whiskey into the library. It was a rectangular room with two large arched windows facing the front of the house and two doors on the interior side – one connecting to the main passage and the other leading to his private dressing room. The wall opposite the doors held a fireplace with a green marble surround and mahogany mouldings that blended seamlessly into the flanking bookcases. Identical bookcases filled the back wall with a sculpture niche in the center that mimicked the arch of the windows, now glowing blue with twilight in contrast to the flicker of the gas lamps in the chandelier hanging from the high moulded ceiling. 

Alfred glanced around. The deep shelves had been cleaned and what remained of the old books neatly stacked at one end. A pair of unattractive wingback chairs and a large, outdated globe were set against the side wall next to the fireplace in the otherwise unfurnished room. Alfred was pleased to see the crate he had sent over sitting in the empty floor. As he had instructed, it was unopened with a prybar placed on top. For want of a desk, he set his glass on a windowsill and set to work opening the crate. At the top were several maps and bundles of correspondence tied with twine. He lifted them out and set them aside on the floor. Below the maps were a few smaller crates filled with ink wells, sealing wax, stationary, and other odds and ends from his desk in the Palace. These he also set aside haphazardly in the floor. Finally, he cleared a layer of shredded paper to find the parchment scroll with Drummond’s portrait and the carved ebony box containing his most private possessions wrapped in the soft carthen that had always draped the foot of his bed. He lifted the box out, scattering the paper shreds about his feet. At the bottom of the crate were his books, which he left untouched. He held the black box gently against his side while using his other hand to replace the lid of the crate. Then he set the box down on top of the crate and reached into the pocket of his waistcoat for the key.

In her sitting room upstairs, Wilhelmina closed the book she had been reading that afternoon. It was one of the volumes the Marchioness had given her. Several of the others were piled in floor next to the divan. With the house as yet short staffed, she decided to take them herself to the library. As she approached the doorway, she was surprised to see Alfred half-sitting on the edge of the crate that had arrived that morning. She opened her mouth to greet him but stopped short when she saw the lamplight flickering on the silver in his hand. He was turning the locket she gave him over and over, passing it back and forth between his palms. Her handkerchief lay across his knee, a carved ebony box beside him with the lid open. She did not want to spoil his private moment and turned to leave when he lifted his head, saying “Wils Darling, don’t go.” She met his wistful eyes, set the books on the nearest shelf, and walked over to wrap her arm around his shoulders. She stroked his back kissed his cheek but said nothing, waiting to see what he would do. He returned to staring at the locket for a few moments, still turning it over in his hand. “I have wondered,” he said tentatively without looking up. “I have wondered how it was that you knew.” He looked up at her now, his face full of curiosity. There was no accusation or threat, but Wilhelmina was taken by surprise and flushed hot with shame. She took a step back. There had been no suitable occasion, nor, she realized, could there ever have been, to reveal what she had seen. She had held vain hope that it would never come up. What good could have possibly come of his knowing? She held her breath as she thought about how to make her confession. Alfred could see her hesitation and stiffened slightly as his internal defenses engaged without his asking. He waited for her to speak.

“Alfred,” she began then stopped. She could not hold his gaze and looked over at the window. The lamplighter was at work cutting short the last of the suns glow, turning deep blue to stark black. She looked back at Alfred. Now the skin between his eyebrows furrowed and he looked expectant. He would turn impatient should she stall any longer. Still, she could not bring herself to tell him. “How I wish I could present to you a lie. I am afraid you shall be angry,” she said.

He studied her. He could see her unease, her shame. It pained him, but what in his mind had been casual curiosity now turned to a demand. He could not give her an escape. He tried to be gentle. “I hate to see you afraid, my darling,” he said, “but if there is something to tell, I must know it.”

She looked at him with trepidation. “Yes, you have every right,” again she hesitated, closing her eyes, and taking a deep breath. “In Scotland, that last night, you and Mr. Drummond absconded from that awful poetry reading. Not long after, Aunt Buccleuch claimed a headache and asked me to take her to her room. From the window, I saw the two of you heading toward the wood. I slipped out as well, hoping I might join your better company. I found you dancing with the servants and myself too timid to take part. When the two of you left, I followed, and” she spoke quickly and looked at him with pleading eyes, “I promise you, I put no thought to your seeking privacy. In my ignorance, it never occurred to me. I only wished for camaraderie.”

“You observed us?” Alfred felt churning in his gut, a violated sickening, but he held on to the shreds of generosity he could still grasp. He retrieved his whiskey from the windowsill and leaned against the frame. He knew Wilhelmina would not have acted with ill will. He trusted her. He needed to keep that in the front of his mind. He closed his eyes against the strain. He counted breaths … one … two … three. He opened his eyes, promising himself to let her answer the question.

“Yes, only for a moment. I promise, I had no intention … and I withdrew, as soon as …” she paused, realizing she was rushing her defenses, concerned with her own terror. The emotion was misplaced. She reconsidered. She bowed her head and then looked up at Alfred directly. His face had turned dark. She did not dare to touch him, not in this moment. It was not hers to console. She said softly, “I am sorry.”

Alfred accepted her contrition but still needed whatever information she possessed before he could feel satisfied. He asked, “Why did you not announce yourself?”

Wilhelmina considered the question, one she had not contemplated, before answering, “At first, I was rather far away, and as I said, feeling very timid. Perhaps somehow, I knew I should not be there, but if I did, I heeded not the feeling. After you left the dancing, I lost track of you. When I came upon you again, the moment was far too private to interrupt. I hurried away and said a word to no one.”

“You did not inform the Duchess?” he asked urgently.

“No, not a word. My naivety prevented my perception, but she does not suffer in that regard. I dare say, once I knew, a great many things fell into sense.” 

“Did they?” he asked, then thought the better of it. It was not what he wanted to know. “Do not answer. You say you left the dancing right after us and followed straight away. And you came upon us again just after. And you withdrew with haste. So, outside of the moment you witnessed, you observed no further conversation?” He sounded like a deranged interrogator, desperate and unhinged, but he could not help himself. His need for clarity was beyond his control.

Wilhelmina’s heart filled with bilious fear and regretful sorrow to see Alfred so on edge. Her voice cracked as she said, “No, nothing. I did not stay. Oh Alfred, whatever further conversation there was, let it remain there! It is yours and Mr. Drummond’s. I do not wish to know!”

“And I do not wish to share it. I did not wish to have shared even that moment,” he said with exasperation, turning his back to her and downing the last of his drink. He put his hands on the window sash and leaned into them, head between his elbows. His mind was still grappling with the knowledge that his intimacy with Drummond, those most vulnerable and tender seconds, was not theirs alone. He wished he did not know, that he had not asked, that he could have back his ignorance, but he knew better than to give such futile chase. It was in the open now, and it was his doing. She would not have inflicted this brutal intelligence upon him. He stood thinking for perhaps five minutes, occasionally pumping his arms into the window and back. He turned around to see her looking contrite and forlorn. She had not moved. Within himself, he acknowledged the situation was not entirely her fault. His conscience told him he should grant mercy. He reached deep. Slowly, he said, “You did not tell me. I suppose that was for my protection,” he looked to find the affirmation in her eyes, “and I imagine were I in your place, I could have no more sought an opportunity to reveal myself. I can hardly blame you for keeping your silence, so I shall not be angry about that.” He searched her face to made sure she believed him before saying, “However, I must have some time alone. Tell them not to hold dinner and to send in another drink.”

Wilhelmina nodded and turned to leave. She stopped in the doorway and looked back. “I am so very sorry,” she whispered. Alfred felt an urge to comfort her, to swiftly put all they had said just now behind them, but he let her go. 

Wilhelmina started upstairs toward her bedroom fighting tears of sorrow and frustration. Her heart ached seeing Alfred so upset, knowing her part in making him so, knowing she could give him no comfort. At the same time, she struggled to place her shame. She had not lied about her intentions. She had been naïve and perhaps foolish, but she had never meant or expected to find herself a witness. Was it wrong for her to think she had spared him the knowledge until now? She had believed it was the greater kindness, but now she did not know. Her back slid against the wall as she dropped to sit on the stairs halfway up. She held her head in her hands, trying to sort out her innocence or guilt, wondering if it mattered if Alfred could not forgive her. There was something else too, something external to her emotions. She had the distinct feeling that the past had awakened and would not rest. From behind her hands, she heard footsteps. She looked up expecting to see Alfred – perhaps he had changed his mind and was coming after her – but there was no one there. She gathered herself, got up, and went to ready herself for dinner where she ate meagerly and did not mention to her aunt anything that had transpired.

In the library, Alfred shut off the gas to the chandelier, leaving only the intruding glare of the streetlamps to light the room. His mind swam in confusion. He picked up the locket again and took it across the room to one of the ugly wingbacks where he slumped down and commenced staring at it in the near dark. Someone brought a drink, and later another, and a sandwich of cold mutton. Yet he sat in the rigid chair, uncomfortable as it was ugly, staring and turning the silver oval over in his hand. He did not dare open it, knowing he could not yet accept how the inscription came to be, knowing the peace it represented had been disturbed. He fell asleep with it tight in his hand.

Morning came unceremoniously. Alfred was awake before the silhouettes of the trees revealed themselves above the fog. He stretched his aching body as he changed clothes. If only his mind were so easily appeased. He carefully put the ebony box back together and placed it on a shelf. Determined to extend his solitude, he did not wait for breakfast. On his way out, he found the man serving as the butler. He mustered an authoritative tone, “Beale, please have the chairs in the library removed and inform the ladies I shall be sending new furniture for that room this afternoon.” It seemed a trifling act, but in it there was a semblance of control. He slipped out of the house in time for a long ride before he needed to report for duty.

The rhythm of his horse and the cool morning air cleared his head. He could now parse his tangled thoughts and try to come to terms with Wilhelmina’s revelation. 

No. 

It was not her revelation. It was her dear secret. Out of love, she had kept it, and out of love she had given him honesty when he asked. It was a brave thing on both accounts. A part of him wanted to be as angry with her as she expected – it hurt like hell thinking anyone shared his intimacy with Drummond – but he could not allow it, not when he loved her. He hoped he had not hurt her with his wild interrogation, his sending her away. Damn the way he could behave when he was scared! He resolved to make amends and to restore the delicate peace he must forever keep.

**************************************

All day, the strange sense of waking stayed with Wilhelmina. It filled the house and followed her as she crossed the street to take some air in the Palace garden. She tried to dismiss it as the natural opening of springtime. The sap was now running in the trees, swelling their leaf and flower buds. Fuzzy pregnant bracts covered the magnolias, pendulous sulfur catkins dripped from the hazels, and even a few frilly cerise blossoms revealed themselves at the tips of the early fruit trees. The flower beds too, no longer bare and drab, were hatched with delicate green where the shoots of daffodils and tulips split the thawed soil. The low woodland meadows sparkled in purple, yellow, and white where crocus, galanthus, and aconite trumpeted the prelude to the blooming season. The earth itself was waking from its dormant slumber, but that predictable quickening, full of gentle hope and promises fulfilled, was nothing like the uncanny ambiance that dogged her. Perhaps it was only her trepidation, the fear that Alfred would not forgive her, that her omission would forever lie between them. Though she surely felt uneasy – her old apprehensions had all come back to gloat at their apparent confirmation – this explanation too seemed amiss. There was something almost tangible, almost present, and it would not leave her alone. She pulled herself through the rest of the day, keeping as busy as she could. She dressed for dinner but found it was only her and her aunt once more. She begged patience of herself and put her best effort toward concealing her nerves. The Duchess, sharp as ever, sensed her trouble, but chose to stand back. The time was coming to retire her interventions. Her one act was to send Wilhelmina from the table with a glass of brandy while she sent herself to bed.

Alfred tried in vain to break away from the Palace, as one hour after another turned evening into night. When he finally arrived at the house, he found Wilhelmina reading in the library. She had positioned herself there, curled up on the newly arrived sofa, in hopes he would receive her straight away. If he would not, at least she would avoid the protracted uncertainty. To her surprise, he entered with an armload of purple-blue hyacinths tied with a matching silk ribbon. Without a word, he sat down next to her and held out the bouquet. She laid down her book and accepted it, wrapping her hand around his. She inhaled the scent and waited for him to speak. He lingered in silence, gently guiding the flowers to a resting place on a low table. He kept her hand and held it firmly, kissing the top then searching her eyes. There he found her patient question. He answered with one of his own. “My darling, will you forgive me?” he asked with soft earnestness. “I was careless to ask such a question of you, and unfair to demand of you revelation of the secret you kept bravely and with love.”

“Alfred, of course. I understand your reasons, and I feel dreadful for them,” she answered quietly, “Can you forgive me?”

“I have, my darling, though what is there to forgive but innocence?” He reached out and traced his fingers from her temple to her chin.

Wilhelmina still felt the sting of shame. What Alfred called innocence, to her, was more accurately described as naïve blindness. The shame was for her own oblivion but also for the whole society that engineered the disservice of her upbringing. Still, she could see Alfred was sincere. He was neither shocked nor angry that a grown woman would not have known better, and if he truly could forgive her, then there was no point in seeking further penance. She reflected on the abject difficulty of their situation, on the need of grace for both of them. With eyes full of love, she said “Alfred, fate has asked of us impossible things. I must tell you I have felt their substance all last night and all day today. Perhaps, if we are to bear it, we must forgive the past itself.”

“Every day of my life, my darling,” he replied, as usual ahead of her. There was no more to say and no good to come from drawing out the subject. He placed his finger on her lips and stood up, pulling her with him. Silently, he held her a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aww, anyone else need a hug? This was a difficult one to write, Dear Readers. I hope you've enjoyed. Let me know what you think!
> 
> Historical Notes:
> 
> 42 Grosvenor Place was surely a real address at some point, though I have not been able to clearly identify it. The house described is a conglomeraltion of historical and present day images of houses/builings on Grosvenor Place and in Grosvenor Square, and of course, liberal doses of my delightful imagination.
> 
> The rebuilding of Westiminster Palace was indeed a fraught project and a facinating thing to research - there was so much more I could have put in, but I decided to let the character of Augustus Pugin stand in for the whole thing. And he was indeed a character. It is now suspected that he suffered from syphilis, which contributed to his eventual insanity. He was very much a reactionary and used architecture as a medium for prosthelytising. He was not the lead architect on the project but was responsible for all of the interior. The choice of the Gothic style for Westminster was itself a repudiation on the Enlightenment and Georgian Era in general and what was viewed as the licentiousness of the Regency in particular. Many found ways of casting the reactionary movement in the light of progress while many others deeply regretted Britain's change in course. The architecture and design world still debates whether Victorian architecture ushered in a more functional, meaningful, and user-centric ideal or abandoned timeless aesthetic principles for unsound and/or moralistic reasons.
> 
> Floriography (A brilliant term I just learned that will require my editing the notes at some point):
> 
> Daffodils represent new beginnings  
> Helleborus paradoxically represent both serenity/tranquility/peace and anxiety/scandal  
> Willow represents sadness and death, so here, it can be taken as not too good an omen
> 
> Blue/purple hyacinth is the quintessential sincere apology flower


	7. Perfectly Reasonable Explanations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is the month leading to the wedding, and Alfred and Wilhelmina find themselves with a bit much to manage. When the framed portrait of Drummond is delivered, all is not right at 42 Grosvenor Place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note of thanks to all of you dear readers - it is such a thrill to see when someone has picked up the story and to hear from those of you following it! You brighten my pandemic. Enjoy the chapter!

The morning the portrait of Mr. Drummond was delivered from the framers, Alfred was away on a four-day excursion with Prince Albert, Aunt Buccleuch was out, and Harriet was due for tea. The sun, just past the point of equinox and strengthening day by day, streamed through the windows of the front rooms, giving them a bright and cheery feeling. Wilhelmina basked in their rays as she placed a whimsical arrangement of magnolia blossoms in the dining room. Days had passed without incident, and the rhythm and mood of 42 Grosvenor Place returned nearly to where it had been, though with a certain inevitable temperance gained from the experience of confrontation. The start of Spring also brought with it a growing hum of excitement as the Season quickly approached. 

Plans for the wedding, a scant three weeks away, were proceeding apace with jovial affirmative responses filling the letter box each day. Falling as it did between Easter six days prior and the opening of the new House of Lords a mere four days after, the idea began to circulate there would be one long event with all of London in a marathon of costume changes. Family and friends would be arriving from the country expecting time and attention and grand entertainment. Wilhelmina wondered how to offer fair accommodation to everyone while preserving any time for her and Alfred to keep their heads. He, of course, would return to the Palace, or perhaps his club, as it would not do to keep up their routine with company in and out of the house all week. All too conveniently, and to her great relief, delays in renovation rendered the extra bedrooms of the house uninhabitable, so squabbles over who might occupy them could be avoided. Alfred’s family would generally take care of themselves, and Aunt Buccleuch graciously offered to open her London house for their relations, welcoming even Lord and Lady Hatton. All in all, Wilhelmina delighted at the prospect of seeing all of her loved ones in one place. Perhaps she could even foster better ties with her brothers now that they might see her as finally grown. Only the troublesome notion of her mother gave her dread, but she did her best to put it out of her mind knowing she could have no effect on the woman’s behavior.

The Westminster project too was closing in on its deadline, and the hurried pace of decisions and changes, plus planning for the event itself required Alfred to keep long hours. Wilhelmina matched his effort with her planning for the onslaught of relations and her work on the house. While she found utter frustration in securing a staff with the proper degree of discretion, she enjoyed accomplishment in the furnishing and decoration of the rooms. She was nearly finished with the first two floors, and she looked forward to hanging the newly framed portrait in the reception hall where it would become the focal point of a composition of similarly sketched artworks above the elegant console. She and Alfred had chosen the location together, agreeing that the light there was good – bright, but soft and indirect – and that the highly visible location was fitting for an artwork by Her Majesty.

When the carrier arrived, Wilhelmina asked him to unwrap it and place it on top of the console. She preferred it not be hung just yet in case Alfred was in any way displeased. He had taken a keen hand in design of the frame, and she hoped it had turned out as he intended. It was a rectangle of warmly burnished gold, large but proportional, and not overly formal in comparison to the work. Darkened beadwork constituted the protruding outer border, and from it, the frame sloped inward toward a flat panel embossed with an intricately twining thistle motif. The swirling bracts and inflorescences stretched to fill the corners then coalesced in a tight wreath surrounding a dark oval band beveled to the opening that revealed the sepia sketch. 

Wilhelmina gazed at the portrait for a few minutes. It almost pulsed with life, such were the energetic strokes of pen and ink, the carefree expression. Its bleak contrast with reality made the sense of loss tug harder on her heart. Reality, a tragedy of chance, her cruel benefactor. A feeling of guilt crept into her consciousness. She fought it. She had refused jealousy and she must refuse guilt too. She had promised to forgive the past and let grace make room for love. Only love could hold all that had happened and allow for joy yet to come. Her thought was interrupted by the cockney voice of the carrier saying, “Ma’am? Ma’am? If you’re quite pleased, might I get on with it?”

“Yes, of course,” she replied, turning away from the portrait as though a spell had been broken and meeting the carrier’s impatient eyes with hers full of complicated sadness.

“Handsome bloke,” added the carrier, at least half to himself, as he headed toward the door, “I’d have thought he’d bring a smile. Never know who’s behind the glass. I always hates the ones that comes back in sorrow.” Before he stepped across the threshold, he looked back to catch Wilhelmina’s eye again. “I’m sorry for your loss Ma’am,” he said with a tip of his cap. Wilhelmina nodded her bewildered thanks. _What an odd thing to say._ She stared after him thinking how many intimacies of personal life a man in his line of work must see. 

The clock chimed four, and Wilhelmina hurried to freshen up before tea. Harriet was not one to run behind on schedule. As expected, she arrived promptly at four-thirty. Wilhelmina went downstairs to greet her. As she passed through the reception hall, she was startled to see that the portrait was gone. Harriet noticed her baffled and distressed expression. “Wilhelmina, what is the matter?” she asked, stepping forward to take her arm. 

Wilhelmina recovered herself and answered, “Harriet, so good of you to come. I have missed your company. I apologise for my distraction. We had a portrait delivered not an hour ago, and it would seem that one of the servants has moved it. I shall look into it later.” She waived her hand in a dismissive gesture. “Please come in. Tea is upstairs in the drawing room.”

The women sat down to tea and commenced their exchange of stories from the preceding months – Prince Ernest’s sad departure, the harrowing tale of the winter storm, the trials of moving into new houses. Harriet too had taken a new London residence in time for the Season and was planning to gather a salon to take the place of her fulfilling role at court. Wilhelmina was keen to seek her advice. “Harriet, I must admit, having come from the Palace, I never imagined securing a proper staff would be fraught with such difficulty. Beale performs a fine service, but the housekeeper Mrs. Willett has been here alone so long, she seems to take offense that anyone is in residence, and I could do without her scowls and dereliction of nearly everything I say. We have yet to retain any personal attendants at all. Alfred has so much to do at court, it is down to me to steer the hiring, yet he is terribly particular about who we bring on. Do you know where I might find anyone?”

“For goodness sake Wilhelmina, if Beale is up to the task, he can take care of most of it. As for your personal attendants, I shall see what I can do,” replied Harriet. “I can only imagine the difficulty, with all of your relations due to visit on top of it. I do not know how you manage.”

“Indeed, it is the one thing that gives me nerves. There are enough of Alfred’s family to form a regiment, and enough combustible passion too.”

Harriet laughed, “You needn’t mind them. I’ve never known a one of them to have a bad time.”

“I suspect as much. My family,” sighed Wilhelmina, “could not be farther to the contrary.”

“You have never spoken much of your family besides a hint here and there that your mother – for some unfathomable reason – disapproves of you and so the two of you do not get on. Am I out of turn to say so?”

“No, Harriet, what you say is the unfortunate truth. Mother has a very narrow view of the world and disapproval is her general position. To her, life is one great disappointment.” Harriet inclined her head in invitation to Wilhelmina to share her confidence should it be helpful. Wilhelmina accepted the offer, pouring out more tea and settling herself for the telling. “So the story goes,” she began, “my father was the next in line for the Earldom of Leicester. Mother married him assuming she would soon become a Countess, presiding over Holkham Hall. The first Earl was a distant uncle who no one ever suspected of wanting a wife until at the age of seventy-five he suddenly married a woman fifty years his junior and promptly issued three sons in quick succession. With the Earldom lost, Father had to make other plans, none of which were ever a resounding success. Mother never got over it and still cannot help herself from reminding Richard – my eldest brother – of what she believes should be his. Richard tires of hearing it but I am sure he believes it himself. My other brothers are just the same. They are a jealous brood, the lot of them.”

“Oh Wilhelmina, what difficulty. How many troubles of succession have wracked this land?” Harriet shook her head then said in the tone of a question, “I suppose then you have had no help at all with the wedding.”

“The wedding is not as difficult as one might think,” replied Wilhelmina. “It has become a veritable state occasion, and I find the fewer preferences I have, the more swiftly it proceeds. There was a time I would have dreamed of every detail, but I was younger then and knew nothing of the world.”

“Wilhelmina, you have become wise beyond your years, and as I understand it, the wedding is something of a formality, is it not?”

Wilhelmina blushed. “Whatever do you mean?” she asked.

Harriet gave her a cunning smile from behind her teacup. “I am given to the understanding that Lord Alfred’s horse is boarded in your coach house nearly every night.”

“Are you? What a clever horse,” giggled Wilhelmina.

Harriet glanced around, checking that they were undisturbed, then in a lowered voice said, “I trust the conversation is going well.”

“Quite well,” replied Wilhelmina. She would not mention the difficult interlude she hoped was behind them.

“And you have found a method of countering risk?” asked Harriet.

Wilhelmina leaned forward. “You once told me Alfred was resourceful,” she said with flashing, conspiratorial eyes, “… perhaps half a dozen methods and then some.” Harriet tilted her head, bemused. Wilhelmina straightened up and took a long sip of her tea. “If I ask you to picture a rose,” she said, “you most likely think of that standard of a red blossom, full and tight and quite correct with it’s perfect spiral. No?” Harriet nodded skeptically. She was not sure where the analogy was going. Wilhelmina kept her eye and continued, “But take a walk in any garden of note, and you will see roses in more forms than one could imagine – showy shrubs brimming with clusters of petals streaked with every floral hue, ragged climbers with effervescent blossoms dripping from their stems, soft, open, cream-coloured ruffles blushing as if awakened from a delightful dream.” By the time she was finished, Wilhelmina’s eyes sparkled with intensity.

“Aha,” said Harriet. “A garden of pleasures. You know, I find often the greatest of them comes with no risk at all. You are fortunate to have a willing gardener. Most women cannot say the same.”

“Indeed,” Wilhelmina answered, her mind turning now on Harriet’s last statement and its invocation of the whims of fortune, the concept in which she had been so deeply emersed just an hour ago. She turned pensive. “There are days I still find it hard to believe I was nearly given away as a governess. It is so very strange to contemplate the lives we might have led should even one seemingly insignificant detail have been altered, a casual invitation, a kind or harsh word said in passing, a delay on the part of a stranger. Yet, I have come to believe the actions we take on our own behalf can bend the future too. Do you think we should ever understand the intricate dance between fate and will?”

“I think it is a torture to try,” Harriet answered with a tired sigh. She did not like to think of the sad outcomes of chance. “Oh, let us get back to happier things. Won’t you show me around the house. I am eager to see what you are doing with it.”

“With pleasure,” said Wilhelmina as she got up and pointed the way to the adjacent music room and then downstairs to the library. It finally felt inhabited and she was proud of her efforts to make it so. She had arranged the shelves such that their small collection of books appeared more robust by their interspersal with various objects and a series of small watercolor botanicals she had produced during her time in the Palace. She had the few open sections of wall painted the color of copper verdigris and, against the fashion, left the arched windows undraped. Moulded shutters, subtly folded along the casing could be closed against the street. The floor was filled with a large gold carpet with a medallion in the center and an otherwise vaguely floral motif accented with shades of verdigris and deep sienna. On the wall between the two doors hung a pair of misty, vibrant Turners and above the fireplace opposite, a painting of the Marchioness reading in the garden. Its pastel pallet and dreamy light were out of the ordinary for a typically serious and masculine room, but Wilhelmina found it fitting and liked the way it brightened the space. The comfortable seating group was arranged in front of the hearth, and Alfred’s desk was placed along the front wall between the windows. 

The two women entered the light-filled room, attention on their conversation. At first, Wilhelmina did not notice anything amiss, but when she glanced in the direction of the desk, she was shocked to see Drummond’s portrait leaning against the wall from where it was propped on top of the chair back. She let out a little gasp, bringing her hand to her mouth.

“What is it?” asked Harriet.

“The portrait,” answered Wilhelmina, “The one that was missing. It has turned up here and took me by surprise.”

“Why, it is Mr. Drummond,” declared Harriet, surprised as well, having never known about the sketch. She stared at it a moment. “What an incredible likeness. It must be a bittersweet thing to have,” she murmured as she turned to examine the rest of the room.

“Yes, quite,” replied Wilhelmina as she placed her hands around the frame and lifted it off the desk. “I had rather hoped to place it in the reception hall,” she said. Harriet looked puzzled that she would not call for a servant, but Wilhelmina could not wait for pageantry. She had an overwhelming urge to see that it was done. As she took the portrait back to the console, the strange sense of disturbance she had felt the night of her confession returned. She tried to ignore it while she showed Harriet the rest of the house and they said their goodbyes. When the door closed, and she was alone, the feeling of presence grew until she began to look around for it. She saw nothing. The sounds of her aunt’s carriage broke the silence, and the presence suddenly withdrew. 

The evening and night passed quietly into the next morning. Just before luncheon, a messenger arrived with a small package for Wilhelmina. In it she found a note from Harriet. It read:

_Dearest Wilhelmina,_

_What a treat to see you yesterday! Your home is surely to be among the loveliest as it is made over by your talented sensibility. I shall hope to offer what assistance I can. As fortune would have it, Viscount Torrington sadly left this world but a fortnight ago. Lady Torrington is eager to place his long serving valet. I took the liberty of arranging an interview. You can expect the man at two o’clock._

_With warmest regards,_

_Harriet_

_PS. I have included an early manuscript of Charlotte Bronte’s most astounding novel to be published this Autumn under the name of Currer Bell. Reflecting on our chat, I believe you will find it quite enjoyable._

Wilhelmina hurried to ready herself to interview the promising valet. She ate only a bite and dispatched her correspondence, which included a letter to her mother confirming her plans spend Easter in London before the wedding and asking what she might expect from her brothers. She had received their official responses indicating their attendance but phrased as though they could be from distant, required associates, but there had been no suggestion that anyone would do more than take a pew at the Chapel. Part of her wished outreach but in equal measure she would be pleased enough if they did just that. 

Finishing the letter, she asked Beale to post it and set the library for the meeting. At ten minutes to two, having nothing left to do, she took the manuscript from Harriet and went ahead into the room. Scanning the space, the unbound book fell to the floor as she brought her hands reflexively to her heart. There behind Alfred’s desk once again stood the portrait. She rang for Beale. Filled with terrible anxiety, she searched her mind for an explanation. Certainly, one of the servants must have moved it again. Perhaps Alfred had left instructions without informing her.

Within a minute, the congenial butler appeared and retrieved the fallen pages. He held them out to Wilhelmina and said, “What can I do for you ma’am?”

“Thank you, Beale,” said Wilhelmina, sounding uncharacteristically short. “Please take this picture back to the reception hall and inform the staff I wish it to remain there.” 

“Very well, ma’am,” replied Beale, though he looked quite puzzled at the instruction. Without delay, he crossed the room, gently lifted the portrait, and took it with him out of the room. As he did, Wilhelmina felt a rush of cold air on the back of her neck. She turned around to see the window to the right of the desk had become unlatched and was hanging open. She quickly crossed the room and shut it. The strangeness of the occurrence further unsettled her already agitated nerves. She needed to get ahold of herself. Deliberately, she perched on the edge of a chair by the fire, warmed her hands, and directed her thoughts toward conducting the interview.

The clock chimed two, and Beale returned announcing, “Mr. James Harrison, valet to the late Viscount Torrington.” Looking up, Wilhelmina had to suppress a giggle. The anxiety of the previous moment was forgotten. Dear, shrewd Harriet had sent a most unfortunate looking man. He appeared to be in his middle forties with wiry russet hair, thinning from the temples, and full sideburns down to his square jaw. His complexion was quite ruddy, and the bridge his large nose angled sharply to the left. Despite these ungainly features, he otherwise appeared to be fit, strong, and proud, though not haughty. Wilhelmina gave him a warm smile and welcomed him into the library. They sat across from one another on the chairs by the fire, the low table between them set with cups of tea. She went through the standard questions of experience and skill and then offered him the opportunity to ask whatever he wished of her.

“Ma’am,” he began tentatively, “Am I correct that your husband is a cavalryman?”

She replied, “You are correct that Lord Alfred is an officer of the Royal Horse Guards as well as Her Majesty’s Chief Equerry and Clerk Marshall, but,” she broke into a coy smile, as if at a secret joke, “he shall not be my husband for three weeks hence.”

“My best wishes ma’am,” Harrison continued, seemingly not alarmed by her implication. “If you will pardon my curiosity, is he not also the son of the Marquess of Angelsey?”

“That he is. May I ask why you inquire?”

“I am a cavalryman myself, so it would be an honor to attend to him. He would not know me, but I served under the Marquess at Waterloo.”

Wilhelmina’s face lit up in bewilderment. “You could not have been more than a boy,” she said.

“Seventeen ma’am,” he replied proudly. “Just a trooper in the regiment fresh out of camp. I was at the front and saw the cannon that took the Commander’s leg. I dare say I fought well – earned a medal for gallantry even – that is until I caught the butt end of a French rifle. I came to three days later, and it was all finished.”

Wilhelmina did not know what to say to such a story, and she felt ashamed at have nearly laughed at the man. His earnestness and loyalty were both evident and promising. She took a moment to respond saying, “My goodness. We owe a debt to you Sir. Lord Alfred shall be honored to make your acquaintance.” She paused, looked him in the eye, then put up the final test, “Would you find it highly irregular if I asked you to start straight away? Quite discreetly of course. No one is to know Lord Alfred is in residence.”

“Discretion is the hallmark of my creed, ma’am, but perhaps I should first meet the gentleman?”

“Yes, of course. As I say, it will be his pleasure. If you could make yourself available day after tomorrow at the same time, I shall arrange a meeting for you,” said Wilhelmina as she stood to show him out.

“As you wish ma’am. Thank you and good day to you,” he said, standing and giving her a bow. 

“Good day,” she replied. He made his exit, and again Wilhelmina was alone. She picked up her book and a blanket from a basket by the sofa, and feeling pleased to have finally found an attendant for Alfred, went outside to enjoy the rarity of a free afternoon on the terrace. 

The strengthening early Spring sun bounced from the walls of the city houses, warming the courtyard to a pleasant degree. Wilhelmina settled herself on the chaise with the blanket across her lap and her shawl draped around her shoulders. She opened the new book. _Jane Eyre: An Autobiography_ , it read. She set to reading and found herself immediately engrossed, eagerly turning the pages, loosing track of time until Beale came to call her for tea. Between tea and dinner, and after dinner too, she could not put the book down such was its resonance with the aspects of her life either lived or nearly so. The Gothic fright peaked her interest too, recalling uncanny incidents to the front of her mind. By the time she crawled into bed, she was through the second part and her mind so occupied with the world of its pages that she did not notice much of her own surroundings nor the ominous change in weather outside the windows. She laid the book beside her bed, shut off the light, and closed her eyes.

From that place of almost sleep, she suddenly felt herself falling. She opened her eyes with a start. She was lying exactly as she had been. Nothing had happened, but now she was alert to every errant noise and movement around her. The fire had died low but still cast eerie shadows with the last of its flames. Outside, the wind continually scraped the overhanging branches of the tree next door against the gutter. Her door, which she was sure to have shut as was her habit, stood ajar, allowing a sliver of odd light through the crack. A sense of foreboding overtook her. She wished she were not alone then chastised herself for having become so easily frightened. She told herself she suffered only from the inoculation of her imagination with the horrific passages she had read too late into the night. 

Yet her mind raced, lighting in flashes on strange occurrences she had experienced, excused, and forgotten – the terrible sense of a wakeful past, the footsteps on the stairs, the mysteriously unlatched window, and the undirected placement of the portrait. At once, she was seized with the need to check its location, all but certain of what she would find. Perhaps she should wait for the benevolent light of morning and avoid creeping through the house, still somewhat unfamiliar to her and forbidding in its darkness. She shut her eyes again, a futile attempt to pretend she was not now compelled by her obsession. She drummed her fingers on the pillow and grasped the linens, begging herself to stay still and reasonable. It was no use. She jumped out of bed and, in only her night dress and bare feet, headed for the stairs. As she approached them, the baleful sound of footsteps came toward her, and she again was joined by an energetic presence. Her mind flashed once more. This time back to Plas Newydd – a different windy night, a different staircase. She had been too frightened and focused to do more than store away the memory. Now, it came flooding back.

Wilhelmina gripped the railing with white knuckles, forcing herself down the stairs. The sense of energy gave her no indication of harm, but its uncanny presence was nonetheless terrifying. Her stomach churned and tightened. She sucked in her breath. When she reached the first floor, she could see the lights in the library were already ablaze. She clutched the doorframe, and with tightly closed eyes, said a prayer. Without moving her feet, she peered around the doorway. Confirming her expectation, there the portrait stood, in all its resplendence, decisively atop the back of the chair behind the desk. 

She stepped into the room, eyes fixed on the sepia sketch, and let out the breath she had been holding. As she did so, the feeling of energy left her and seemed to drift toward the portrait then to dissipate. Deliberately, she resumed breathing in a regular and rhythmic pattern. But for the rising and falling of her breast, all was still and exactly as it should be. She told herself she must have succumb to absurd case of nerves. Surely, a timid servant, intending to follow the order of the gentleman of the house and afraid to confront her on the matter, had moved the picture again and carelessly left the light on, or perhaps Mrs. Willet, with her incorrigible malice toward her station, sought to annoy her. These were reasonable explanations and ones she could discuss with Alfred when he returned tomorrow. With measured movements, she shut off the lights and went back to bed, determined to own responsibility for her ordeal and to put it behind her, but no amount of determination could will away the inkling in her gut.

Grey and close was the next day with the continual dampness of air that could not decide whether to host fog or mist or rain. With no sun to warm the courtyard and the gardens, they were raw and unwelcoming. Wilhelmina resigned herself to a day spent indoors and attributed her restlessness to that unpleasant condition. Subconsciously avoiding the library, she busied herself with her usual tasks and finished reading _Jane Eyre_ , feeling relieved to find the story’s Gothic plot was explained after all, its tragic result attributable to the misdeeds of an untrustworthy servant. Even so, she carried her experiences from the previous night around with her, often thinking of what she would say to Alfred when he returned that evening. Given the paranoid appearance of her accusation and the more troubling explanation for her suspicions should the accusation prove false, she decided to practice airing her thoughts with her aunt. During tea, she cautiously broached the subject, saying “Aunt, have you noticed anything strange about this house?”

“I have not,” replied the Duchess.

“I suppose it is only the seeds of Gothic stories growing in my mind, but I have encountered a peculiar feeling these past few weeks, almost as though something were present, and I have found three times the portrait of Mr. Drummond moved from the place I intended.” She did not elaborate, seeing her aunt already wore a dismissive look.

The Duchess would not entertain nonsense, but her niece’s distressed expression moved her toward reflection and kindness. “Wilhelmina,” she said, “since you were a child, your imagination has often been out ahead of you. One can understand how a child in your circumstance might wish to inhabit a hundred fancies, but now you are grown and in a fair position. You need not take things for other than what they are. There are enough travails in life without additional invention.”

“Well, I suppose the servants are responsible for the picture, but this strange feeling …” she trailed off, looking away toward the window, then meeting her aunt’s eyes again, “It is not something I would wish to devise nor is it to my comfort.”

The Duchess would not concede Wilhelmina’s unspoken claim. She was not a believer in such things. She changed tack, “You must take yourself more often outside this house. It is these infernal gas lamps. They impair your senses. Wax candles never had such ill effects.”

Wilhelmina let the discussion drop. If her aunt were on to railing against progress, she had no further insight to give. Disappointed she had received no credence, she wondered if she should mention anything to Alfred at all. Perhaps it _was_ all just a product of her overactive imagination. While the debate raged in her mind, she summoned a calm expression and shifted the conversation to seating arrangements for the wedding, a task she was keen to hand over to her aunt who would be pleased to have it. The remainder of the evening passed amiably, though Wilhelmina’s impatience for Alfred’s arrival grew with each passing hour. 

He arrived late and tired from traveling and found her in her dressing room, brushing out her hair. She heard him on the stairs and was not surprised to see his form behind her in the glass. From that vantage point, she watched him enter, lay his grey coat and tie across the swooping back of the gold velvet recamier, and come over to drop silent kisses on her head. She set her brush on the vanity and reached up, wrapping her hand around the back of his neck, and moving it in soothing circles. “I have missed you,” she said.

“And I you,” he replied, placing his hands on her shoulders, stroking them across the smooth silk of her sacque, then turning her around. As he bent down to kiss her properly, he saw a flash of trouble in her eyes. He placed his hand around her back, pulling her close, hoping to relieve whatever pain was there. She rose to her feet and wrapped her arms around his neck, but she kissed him distractedly, as though she wished to be doing something else. He finished the kiss, then pulled back to search her face. She wore the look of restrained urgency she could never mask when something difficult was on her mind. He knew then there would be no going to bed straight away. He held on to her waste and asked in a tired but gentle tone, “What is it my darling?”

“Oh Alfred, I do not know where to begin,” she said, sitting again on her cushion. She glanced around, avoiding his eyes as she observed the lamplight flickering on the satin stripes of the effusive floral wallpaper. 

He stepped back and sat on the edge of the recamier where he had placed his coat. He drew in a breath and removed his waistcoat, deliberately shifting his mind into a mode of sympathetic coaxing. “Why not start by telling me what happened while I was away?” he asked.

She took the opportunity to begin with the mundane and delay the topic of her dread. “Alright. Harriet put me on to a most promising valet for you. He served under your father at Waterloo and has a spotless reputation. I have arranged for you to make his acquaintance tomorrow at two o’clock. That is if you can get away.”

Alfred held to his patience, as this news was certainly not the source of her trouble. “Very well,” he said. “But Wils Darling, that is good news. There must be something more to bring such a nervous look to your face.”

“Mother wrote to declare she is coming for Easter. I had hoped she would delay til later in the week. I struggle to think of how we might keep her occupied,” Wilhelmina offered in further procrastination.

“As much was expected. I doubt it should distress you so. Wils, it is unlike you to hold your trouble this way.” He beckoned her to join him on the recamier. She complied and sat facing him, fearful tears brimming in her eyes.

“It is a sore subject, and you shall find me a lunatic,” she said reluctantly. He responded with a puzzled but inviting look, taking her hand as a promise not to recoil. She continued, “May I ask a question of you?” He nodded. “Did you change your mind and instruct the servants to place Mr. Drummond’s portrait over your desk in the library?”

“I did not,” he answered. “Has it arrived?” A spark of excitement flashed in Alfred’s eye. Wilhelmina caught it, and drew inward, clearly now more fearful to expose whatever was on her mind. Alfred summoned further patience, squeezed her hand reassuringly, and waited for her to continue.

“Yes, it arrived two days ago,” she said haltingly, “and since that time, the strangest things have happened. You see, I had it placed it in the reception hall, on the console, to be hung there among the other sketches, as we agreed, but …” she hesitated, searching his face. Finding openness, she continued, “but three times, it has moved, and I have found it resting against the wall behind your desk. Beale seemed quite puzzled when I asked him to see that it remained in the hall. I suppose Mrs. Willet or one of the others could be playing a trick, but it seems unlikely your family would retain such childish servants. I dare say, it is as though,” again she hesitated, “as though the picture itself wants to be there.” He could not help but give her a look of skepticism. She was expecting it. She shut her eyes and shook her head. “There is more,” she whispered. 

Alfred saw the terror behind her calm demeanor. His desire to alleviate it and care for her overrode his impatience to learn all she was not saying. He reached out and took her shoulders gently in his hands. “Please Darling,” he said, “We have looked into the mirror of Aletheia. There is nothing you cannot tell me now.”

Just barely, her watery eyes softened, and her shoulders relaxed. “Do you believe it is possible for spirits to remain among us?” she asked not taking her eyes away from his face. His eyes widened as he finally grasped her implication. It took him off guard, and he was not quick to respond. The absence of a clear negation was answer enough for Wilhelmina. She continued, her face contorted with awkwardness, “I know I sound mad, but could it be Mr. Drummond is not at peace?”

“Wils. Darling. What makes you indulge a notion so farfetched?”

“I have felt the most fantastic of sensations,” she said, “ever since we last spoke of Mr. Drummond. It is like a presence, sometimes an energy, hanging about me as if it wants my attention. Twice I thought I heard footsteps when no one was there.” Her eyes were darting back and forth across Alfred’s face, looking for any sign of credence. He remained reserved, so she pressed on to bolster her case, “And … I had forgotten, but I felt it too the night of the storm. When we were coming up the stairs, you collapsed upon me and I could not hold you. I was saved by a rush of energy. So intent was I on reviving you, I paid no attention, but as I recall it, the power was most certainly not from within me.”

He took on an expression of incredulous sympathy, saying “My darling, you are overtired. Surely, your head is filled with the strains of setting up the house and infernal delicacy of bringing together our relations.”

“Alfred,” she straightened her shoulders against bis embrace, bristling at being dismissed, “you have never before questioned my endurance. You know quite well I am not a woman in need of some laudanum and a fainting couch.” She moved to get up from the recamier as if to strengthen her point, but he stroked her arm and the top of her leg in a calming motion to let her know he took it. “I tell you, there is something, something external to myself,” she pressed on, “And, you answered not my question. Could it be Mr. Drummond is not at peace?”

Alfred’s demeanour abruptly shifted toward exasperation. Of all things, he did not want to speak of Drummond now. “Wilhelmina, why must you bring him up this way? It has been a trying few days. I haven’t the strength to reflect upon state of his soul.”

“I can promise you your trials do not exceed mine,” she said. The terror flashed again in her eyes, but it was mixed with a bit of antagonism that put Alfred on the defensive.

“Perhaps then, it is a manifestation of your own insecurities,” he said, “I grow weary of treading the same ground. Is there nothing I can do or say to relieve you of them?”

“What insecurities have I not faced and laid to rest? Do you deny my integrity, my strength? I tell you, there is something afoot, and it is no more a manifestation of my harbored insecurity than of your restless grief!” She gave him a direct stare, anger set in her eyes. “These feints to my culpability, they ring false,” she admonished. “Quit your distractions. Still you have answered not my question!”

At once, Alfred’s face fell into an expression of torment. He shrunk inward and held his head in his hands, elbows resting on his knees. He grew deathly quiet. After several leaden seconds, he murmured, “Perhaps … Perhaps.” 

His sudden and quite physical capitulation stunned Wilhelmina. She had not imagined her words could move him so. She meant what she said, but her desire was recognition not injury. Cautiously, she moved beside him. Placing her arm around his shoulders, she said softly, “I did not wish to upset you. Believe me. I would not open the door to so unsettled a place were not this urgent mystery upon me.”

“You are right,” came the muffled response from where his face laid buried in his knees. “You have given me no reason to accuse you.” He paused to rub his temples, then looked up, staring into the middle distance. He did not turn to look at her, and she did not move to force the connection. Instead she glided her hand across his back in gentle strokes, giving him time to gather himself. “You ask if I believe in spirits,” he shook his head wearily. “I do not know. I want nothing of antiquated superstitions, but I would not preclude any possibility merely for the defiance of material explanation. The world has been remade time and again by outside chances.” 

Wilhelmina took over rubbing his temples, helping him breach his inhibitions, listening to his philosophy. When she felt sure he had relaxed, she asked with a careful, nurturing tone, “And what of Mr. Drummond?”

“Supposing it were possible,” he shook his head again and reburied it in his hands, running his fingers through his hair. Then he raised his chin to the ceiling with closed eyes, continuing, “Supposing it were possible, I would bear the blame.” Now, Wilhelmina turned herself to look into his watery eyes. The unsettled place was darker than she realised and she could not send him there alone. She took his hands reassuringly, asking with her eyes for him to go on. He took a breath then said, “Drummond and I, we parted on unresolved terms. He was angry with me, and rightfully so. I was cruel to him.”

“This cannot be true, Alfred. You loved him dearly. He must have known that,” she argued.

“It is true,” he shot back, his insistence edged with scorn, the darkness growing in his eyes. “You know nothing of love but the care and kindness of kindling. Nothing of the raging flames that lash out to burn. Love is many things and not above cruelty when it perceives necessity. I dare say, you have caught a glimpse of it.” 

Wilhelmina felt stung by his words, and anger again rose within her. She dropped his hands, and gathered her loose hair, which had become hot and prickly on her neck. With unsparing automatic motions, she began to plait it, never looking away from his face and saying, “You mistake your emotions. That is fear not love. I may indeed have been deprived of fiery passion, but I know what cruelty it is to be without, to be left in the cold without even a candle to keep warm. What do you know of that?”

Alfred kept his cool. He did not wish to descend into a contest of miseries. He took another closed-eyed breath, met her eyes, and said, “After Scotland, Drummond revealed to me his intention to break off his engagement. I endeavoured to dissuade him.” He did not elaborate, but his tone and expression conveyed the ugliness beneath his words, and Wilhelmina understood there was no overstatement. “I hurt him, Wils. It was the last we spoke. The night he died, we were due to meet, perhaps to reconcile, but he...” Alfred trailed off, looking down, unable to finish the thought.

“Oh Alfred!” exclaimed Wilhelmina as she pulled his whole body towards her in a fierce embrace. She dropped her defenses and her anger, but she could not let go of her original need to understand what strange and terrible things were happening to her. She held Alfred, even as she thought about how to resume the necessary discussion. After some minutes, she asked softly, “Alfred, do you think me mad?”

“No Wils,” he answered. In the time she held him, he had pulled away from his own maddening precipice, reminding himself that his guilt served no purpose, that there was no change to be rendered. Now fighting exhaustion, he wished to return to a more logical mode and bring the discussion to a close. He fixed on her an authoritative expression, saying, “You are too sensible for madness. I believe some terrifying experience has set upon you. I do not deny it, but Darling, can you not agree there are more likely explanations?”

“Yes, I can agree in every aspect of intellect – my reading, the lamps, the servants, nerves over what has been and what shall be – it all makes sense, but Alfred, not one explanation can relieve me of the feeling in my gut. I am sure there is something more,” she said with conviction. 

It was enough to keep the door open despite Alfred’s wish to shut it. Wandering thoughts drifted through his tired mind, and uncharacteristically, he spoke without first thinking. “What I cannot understand is why Drummond should haunt you and not me,” he said pensively.

“I do not pretend to know,” she replied, relieved that he might finally have granted her a shred of credibility. “Perhaps he sees you are haunted enough by memories … or perhaps he believes that it is me with whom he must negotiate. Alfred, do you think he would be jealous?” 

Ruefully, Alfred made a half smile. He shook his head, remembering Drummond’s expression the night she had intruded on their solitude searching for her Chopin. With a quiet chuckle, rising not from mirth but fondness, he said “I would not put it past him.” The ridiculousness of the thought brought him again to earthly reason. Wilhelmina’s face was still full of fearful wonder. He realised he must accept her conviction even if he remained skeptical. He brushed the back of his fingers along the ridge of her cheekbone and said, “Darling, if it gives you peace I shall grant the possibility, and if you think it best, we can leave Drummond in the library. Now, you must admit, you are exhausted, as am I. Come to bed. Everything will seem better when you have slept. 

He led her to the adjoining bed chamber, helped her out of her sacque, and climbed in beside her. Positioning himself against her back with one arm underneath, he used his free hand to gently stroke her hair. She embraced his arm like a child holding a doll. He could feel her body, still tense with fear, twitching now and again as she settled into sleeping. He wished he could talk her out of the anxious place where her mind had wondered. At least he could provide the comfort of steadfast closeness. Despite his fatigue, or perhaps because of it, his own mind would not settle. It whirled backward along the tread of their conversation to the ethereal memory of Drummond. A sort of longing curiosity pulled at his emotions, urging him to go and have a look at the portrait, to examine the framework and spend some time, but he could not leave his frightened bride. Such was the promise he would make publicly in a matter of days, the one he had made unto himself in an instant, the one that was as real and substantive as the body in his arms. So, he held her, stroking her hair as she slept, even as he laid awake wondering whether or not Drummond was at peace.

*****************************************************

The following week, Alfred made his way through the Palace garden in fog so dense the sun could not break through it. The ground had been interminably muddy, but today it stood in stiff clumps where the surface had frozen overnight. Every limb and twig and even the early spring flowers wore frosty coats of frozen mist. A cold and gloomy Lenten dampness had settled over London and showed no signs of relenting. He hoped it would break before the wedding, now less than a fortnight away. For himself, he held little care, but for Wilhelmina, already frayed with worry, he wished the weather would not add concern and instead produce warmth and sunshine. As he entered the Palace and took the long passage to the offices, he was lost in thoughts of what more he could do to help her. 

Despite the early hour, Victoria was already at her desk going through the boxes. She looked up and noticed Alfred’s pensive expression. “Good morning, Lord Alfred. It appears something is on your mind. Tell me, is everything quite alright?”

“Not everything, Ma’am, but perhaps you could assist me,” he said, drawing her into his confidence. “It seems my future mother-in-law will descend upon us before Easter, and the prospect of her extended stay has my bride most uncharacteristically beset with nerves. Ma’am, if I may, you know a thing or two about troublesome mums. Might I beg your advice?”

Victoria’s eyes grew wide. “Heavens,” she said affirmingly as she tented her fingers on her desk and donned a thoughtful expression. “As I recall, her mother is something of a snob … Tell me, would it suit you to bring them along with Us to Windsor for Easter?”

“Ma’am?”

“There is plenty to occupy a person at Windsor, and elegance to spare,” she said with a cunning glint in her eye. “You shall be there in any case, so why not bring Wilhelmina and her mother along. The Duchess should come too. It could be a little reunion.”

“Very well. I shall extend the invitation. You have my gratitude, Ma’am,” he replied with a slight bow.

“Oh, and tell Wilhelmina she is in good company. We veterans of private wars are many,” she said with a direct look and an equally intentional shift back to the boxes.

Alfred responded with a smile, “I will, Ma’am. Now what business do we have today?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Floriography
> 
> Thistles are the flower symbol of Scotland
> 
> Historical Notes
> 
> It would be hard to overstate the importance of ghost stories in Victorian culture. Researching them for this story has been a most deep and fascinating rabbit hole to explore. To generalize (probably with some injustice), they most often appeared in magazines of the day, frequently in serial form, serial stories in general being the closest counterpart to modern day television programs and most closely filling that role in popular culture. They, along with other forms of supernatural fiction, had a particular affinity with women (though by no means exclusively), who were their authors and readers to a greater degree than other forms of literature. The genre allowed for the exploration and expression of voices, ideas, and fantasies that were considered otherwise taboo or disrespectable. I find the resonance with what we are doing here remarkable. If any of this is of interest to you, Dear Reader, I would commend you to the following works:
> 
> * “Spirit Writing: The Influence of Spiritualism on the Victorian Ghost Story” by Jennifer Patricia Bann – this seems to be her doctoral thesis and is available online. It tracks the evolution of Victorian concepts of ghosts and ghost stories.
> 
> * _What Did Miss Darrington See?: An Anthology of Feminist Supernatural Fiction_ by Jessica Amanda Salmonson (Editor), Rosemary Jackson (Introduction) – While I would argue that Ms. Jackson overstates her case, the ideas presented are nonetheless fascinating. Several of the stories themselves are also great reads.
> 
>  _Jane Eyre_ was published in October of 1847 and sits within the early Victorian context of Gothic literature.
> 
> Another wrinkle in the facination with the supernatural and ghosts in particular in the Victorian period was the actual effects of gas lamps, which actually could cause hallucinations.
> 
> The real Wilhelmina’s father was Thomas Coke, 1st Earl of Leicester (seventh creation). He seems to have been a decent and somewhat interesting man. For the sake of our story, the account told is entirely fictional as are her brothers and the character of her mother. There is also no indication that there was any relationship of the Coke family to the Duchess of Buccleuch, so it’s fiction all around.
> 
> J. M. W. Turner was an English Romantic artist based in London. He was known for misty, vibrant, and sometimes violent land-, sea-, and cityscapes and was something of a precursor to the Impressionists and abstract art. He was quite prolific in his painting, though terribly eccentric and reclusive in his private life. His work would have been considered in the vanguard of art at the time of our story.
> 
> Aletheia is the Greek goddess and philosophical concept of truth, in particular of disclosure, unconcealedness, or the state of not being hidden. She is generally depicted as holding a mirror.


	8. Beyond, Beyond Doubt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is the week before the wedding with much to do and lots company. Wilhelmina's nerves are frayed from every angle, bringing on waves of doubt. Alfred tries to help her as he struggles for understanding and to overcome his own anxieties. With a little boost from the Amazing Angelseys, they reach the point of no return...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “We must assume our existence as broadly as we in any way can; everything, even the unheard-of, must be possible in it. That is at bottom the only courage that is demanded of us: to have courage for the most strange, the most singular, and the most inexplicable that we may encounter.”  
> ~ Rainer Maria Rilke

When Wilhelmina thought back upon the week leading to her wedding, she would remember it in fragments, jagged recollections of occasions, relations, exchanges, and dialogues all swirling on top of each other – the joyous and the terrible each vying for primacy of place in a proverbial whirlwind and the haunting sensation that overwhelmed it all. The patchwork of memories would begin with that chilly Easter Sunday, standing along a front-row pew in St. Georges Chapel, the grand parable of the risen dead on her mind in a way no others could perceive.

The chapel was festooned with effusive white lilies, the product of so many greenhouses, and the great Gothic nave with its black and white checkered floor brimmed with worshippers, elegantly dressed, yet in their winter finery for the foul weather was unrelenting. Wilhelmina joined the congregation next to Alfred and tried to contain a grin as the tails of his Windsor uniform coat became under constant attack from the five-year-old Prince of Wales. Her mother, Lady Jane Coke, stood on her other side and glared at the unruly prince. No amount of deference could supersede her opinions on behaviour in church. Wilhelmina held her breath thinking of the punishments inflicted should even an involuntary giggle have escaped her tiny frame at that age. She reached for Alfred’s hand, drawing fortitude from the gentle way his fingers laced with hers. Her mother noticed that too and trained her glare on Wilhelmina.

Wilhelmina ignored her and grasped Alfred’s hand a little tighter. They had hardly had time to speak. Between the numbers of people on the roads and the continual fog, Prince Albert had belatedly urged an increase in security, and ordered the party to leave promptly at dawn rather than the at their leisure the day before. Alfred, leading the troop of guards, spent the whole of Saturday evening making preparations and took the ride to Windsor on horseback. Once there, he was bound to his duties until the party could be at ease behind the castle walls. The sudden change in plans left Wilhelmina as yet unable to introduce him to her mother properly. Though she and her aunt diligently tried to explain Alfred’s role, Lady Coke still managed to take offense, almost as though she found pleasure in the emotion. Her palpable disapproval set Wilhelmina on edge. While her mother could no longer do anything to dispossess her of her self, she would surely agitate and make every interaction unpleasant where it need not be. 

The tense scene was relieved by exuberant organ bellows, loud and joyful, drawing everyone’s attention as the service began in the customary way. Hymns and prayers followed, leading up to the sermon delivered eloquently by the reverend dean. He spun his message around the figure of the Magdalene, that first believer to receive the resurrected Jesus, and spoke of the crucial nature of openness to that which cannot even be imagined. Though nothing of the sort was stated explicitly, it occurred to Wilhelmina that there was something essential in the choice of a woman, for only a woman would, without prompting or evidence, entertain the openness required. The message struck her deeply and more personally than the reverend, or really anyone, could have understood. 

With the service finished, the household paraded to the residence through the jovial crowds that had gathered despite the weather. They made a good show of their duty, shaking hands and accepting bunches of precious flowers cut from village gardens. Though Alfred appeared a regular member of the entourage, he remained on guard. Once inside, the group gathered in a large drawing room where children searched for hidden eggs and their elders fell into conversation. As they waited to be called for the Easter feast, drinks and canapes were served, smiles were abundant, and a light and happy mood was shared by all but Lady Coke who refused cheerfulness as though it might be poison. She sat primly, dressed in deep aubergine, black being too stark for the celebration of life everlasting. She wore a dour matching lace over her dull pewter hair, severely parted and gathered at the base of her neck except for a series of tight curls stacked above her ears. She wore no ornaments save a choker from which hung a prominent gold cross. From the time of her husband’s death some years ago, she had attired herself this way as rule, a style of perpetual mourning lest anyone forget she was a widow. Her expression tended to match her dress, as she was given to the habit of sucking in her thin cheeks against her clenched jaw. In contrast to the fixed nature of her face, her eyes were animated with a kind of astute criticism that missed nothing. She observed the room, watching Alfred most intently. She did not see that he observed her too, nor did she realize she was outmatched.

Alfred finished his official duty with whispered words between himself and the queen. Wasting no time, he stepped swiftly across the room to join Wilhelmina, her mother, and the Duchess. In his most elegant and proper form, he greeted Lady Coke with a deep bow. “Major Lord Alfred Paget, at your service,” he said. Wilhelmina suppressed a giggle at his excessive formality, a silly imitation of Septimus he knew she would find amusing.

Lady Coke did not speak immediately but brazenly and superfluously inspected him as though he were a cadet out of line. When she had pleased herself, she met his eye and said, “You are a pretty thing in any case. At least the children will have half a chance,” then turning to Wilhelmina, “Do you not see fit to introduce your mother?”

Wilhelmina flushed red and said wryly, “Lord Alfred, my mother, the Honorable Lady Jane Coke.”

“I suppose you expect my congratulations,” said Lady Coke to Alfred. “You may have them, though I must say I was quite taken aback to have been excluded from the decision. In my day, children did not plot against their elders for the sake of whimsy.” She looked at Wilhelmina again. “The Usbornes are devastated to have lost your services. You must write to them with your apologies.” Wilhelmina held her temper and responded with a slight nod. Lady Coke passed her eyes over Alfred again before asking, “You are the youngest son, are you not?”

“Second youngest ma’am,” he replied.

“I don’t suppose you are due to inherit the peerage or even a title of your own then?” she asked almost rhetorically.

“I would prefer not to endure the loss of five brothers, ma’am,” responded Alfred with an inclination of his head that commanded agreement.

Wilhelmina leaned forward interjecting defensively, “Mother, as I was saying earlier, Alfred is a crucial member of…” Lady Coke cut her off with a wave of her hand.

“No one needs your opinion Wilhelmina. Lord Alfred may speak for himself,” she said.

Alfred took on the cool and level expression he reserved for special cases of diplomacy. Wilhelmina knew from it he was up to something. He shot her a wink and broke into a smile. Turning to her mother, he said, “Indeed ma’am. It is true my duties at court keep me rather attached to Her Majesty. If it would please you, it would be my honour to make introductions.”

A flash of eagerness crossed Lady Coke’s face as she said, “I would be most gratified.” 

She started to move in the direction of the queen, but Alfred put up his hand. “Ah, but first,” he said, stepping close to Wilhelmina, showering her with a look of affection, then turning back to her mother, “I have something to ask you. Are you quite aware that I hold your daughter in the highest respect and indeed love her dearly?” Lady Coke’s eyes grew wide at the unexpected question, then she squinted, clenching her jaw, aware of the set up but unable to extricate herself. Alfred smiled broadly and continued, “Her Majesty is something of a Romantic. It is my humble suggestion you keep that in mind.” He nodded at her as he stepped aside and put out his left arm in a leading gesture, looping his right through Wilhelmina’s. Lady Coke followed his direction, caution in her step. The Duchess followed, giving Alfred a pat on the shoulder as she passed. Alfred and Wilhelmina trailed behind as he signaled to Victoria of their approach.

The Queen wore a splendid lilac silk gown with fitted sleeves extending to her elbows and lacy flounces trailing beyond. The bodice was sewn with full rosettes that continued down either side of the split full skirt, which framed a panel of deeper lavender silk and lace layered in horizontal stripes. Her hair was swept over her ears back to where it was pinned with fresh flowers. The costume exuded the vibrance of springtime and stood in brilliant contrast to Lady Coke’s dark ensemble. The Prince, in Windsor uniform, stood next to her by a large oak table displaying Mr. Francatelli’s elaborately crafted sugar eggs. Though they were entirely edible, they appeared like porcelain with ornate pastel exteriors and hollow centers, each containing an intricate little scene. Albert was clearly pleased and thoroughly engrossed in inspecting them. Victoria seemed content at his pleasure and squeezed his shoulder lightly to draw his attention to the approaching group. 

“Your Majesty, Your Serene Highness” submitted Alfred in an official tone, “May I present the Honorable Lady Jane Coke.” Lady Coke bent herself in a deep curtsey.

“Lady Coke,” said Victoria in her magisterial voice, “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I must congratulate you on delivering such a talented and companionable daughter to Our court and further on her felicitous engagement to Our most trusted friend.”

“It is my honour, Ma’am,” responded Lady Coke, nearly choking on the words.

Victoria glanced at Alfred and Wilhelmina. While he seemed quite himself, she could not hide her nervousness. The queen softened her expression and, with a smile, took Wilhelmina by the hands. “Wilhelmina, how I have missed you,” she said, “The music room has lost its splendor without your lovely playing. And Duchess, how nice it is to see you too.” 

“Your Majesty,” the two women said at once, each with a proper curtsey. 

Victoria exchanged pleasant looks with the Duchess then turned back to Alfred and Wilhelmina. “The two of you look positively radiant,” she gushed. “How splendid for you to have found your happiness after all this time.” Then, fixing a direct look on Lady Coke, she added, “You must be so very pleased. I cannot think of two people more deserving. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” stammered Lady Coke. It was all she could get out. 

Wilhelmina smiled genuinely at Victoria’s kind words. She knew they were somewhat exaggerated, which made her appreciate the gesture all the more. She glanced over at Alfred, still cool and completely at ease, though she thought perhaps she caught him stifling a smirk. She thanked him with her eyes and returned to Victoria who was saying, “We are looking forward to next week. Vicky and Bertie are beside themselves with excitement. I do hope this awful weather breaks for you.”

“Thank you, Ma’am,” replied Wilhelmina, “It shall be an honour to have them in the procession.”

“Speak of the little devils,” said Victoria affectionately, glancing across the room to where Bertie was mercilessly pulling a basket out of his sister’s hands. Alfred, Wilhelmina, and the Duchess, needing no further cue, stepped back to allow her to pass. Belatedly Lady Coke followed suit, confounded that her audience with Her Majesty should end so suddenly and casually and stunned to perceive the thin line between the formal and informal relationships, service and friendship, that existed between her daughter and the Queen of England. After the encounter, she tactfully held her tongue, for there was no more she could possibly say.

**********************************

The return from Windsor had been long and tedious as another round of sleety rain made the roads slick with mud and ice. By the time they reached London, it was already dark, and Wilhelmina’s parting with Alfred was no more than his knock on the coach window as his troop turned into the Palace grounds while she continued on to Grosvenor Place. After the arduous trip, she was glad to be free of company and wanted nothing more than to take a book to bed. Instead, she joined her aunt for dinner where they reviewed the agenda for the week. Tuesday would be full of appointments to finalize every last detail of the wedding. Wednesday would be taken up with Mrs. Skerrett, who, on loan again, needed a final fitting of her dress and a practice session with her hair, then a dinner at home with Alfred’s dearest family. Thursday, Aunt Buccleuch would host tea for her and the closest women in her life, and Friday would see a banquet at the Angelsey’s for the two families to be joined the following morning at eleven o’clock at the Guard’s Chapel across from St. James Park. 

A deal of mutual benefit had been struck between the wedding couple and the royal couple whereby the wedding breakfast, which by necessity included far too many guests than could be hosted at home, would take place at the Palace. In turn, Victoria and Albert would leverage the opportunity to welcome notable peers and high-ranking officers throughout the day then keep them captivated with a dance the same evening. Wilhelmina could not imagine a longer day, but she was both grateful and relieved to have the sanctuary of court to make up for her own inadequate resources. 

She would scarcely see Alfred, as his duties at the Palace only had accelerated now that the peers were flooding in from the country, but she would not complain. She knew well this was how their lives together would be. She only hoped they would find time and space to be alone once they were through the opening of the House of Lords. Perhaps then they could find their way to a love that hinged on more than their struggles to overcome the past. 

Though she felt the love and care behind Alfred’s scheme to tame her mother, she yearned for something new, something purely their own. She wondered if it were possible and shivered a little at the thought it might not be. To pacify her fears, she turned her attention back to the week’s parade of events and tried to relish the excitement. Regardless of how it came about, she was a bride and should do her best to revel in the role. Besides, what sort of bride did not suffer from a case of nerves? She had no way to know how they would be tested. 

A Tuesday morning knock at the door heralded a pile of presents so large two trucks were needed to cart them in. Wilhelmina sent them to the music room. She scarcely had time to see it done before the florist was in the reception hall with Mr. Francatelli right behind. There was some great problem with a spoiled shipment of lobsters, and Wilhelmina took pains to be decisive about the solution, though she could not have cared less and would never remember what it was she chose. Musicians, governesses of the child attendants, the chaplain’s representative. By the late afternoon, she was exhausted and beginning to regret having not forged a better relationship with Mrs. Willet. 

With all of the details finally confirmed, she drifted to the music room to enjoy a peaceful few minutes at the piano. It was not to be. Immediately the mountain of presents confronted her. She could not relax until they had been cataloged and answered with notes of gratitude. She went to her sitting room to retrieve her stationary. There, she found she had but two cards left. All manner of stationary was stored in Alfred’s desk, so she headed to the library, happy enough to place her task five minutes more in the future.

The room had returned to a peaceful state, though today, yet sunless and foggy, it was a shadowy place. Drummond’s portrait hung properly on the wall over the desk, and its placement there seemed to pacify the disturbance of its arrival. Wilhelmina entered with her mind on the mundane need of paper and clever phrases she might employ on its surface. She turned on the lamps to supplement the flat and gloomy daylight and slid open the drawer where the stationary was kept. Pulling out several cards, she sat on Alfred’s desk chair thinking she might as well do her writing there. Halfway through the second note, she heard the latch of the window over her left shoulder click open. A sharp gust of cold wind blew the papers from the desk forcing her to get up and making the hair on the back of her neck stand at attention. Her pulse quickened with the feeling she was not alone. Quickly, she jumped up, shut the window, and gathered the fallen cards. Her mind made the connection before she could reason herself out of it. Automatically, she glanced up at the portrait. It was unchanged. She shut her eyes tightly and firmly told herself no. 

_No, no, no, please, no._ The terror welled inside her despite her pleading. Even with the room cut off from view, she could still sense the eerie, wakeful presence. She could not face it again. She wished Alfred were there to hold her and show her how – surely – the window latch was broken. Yet, she would not tell him. She knew, despite his professed open mindedness, he did not wish the troubling notion to be true. She did not blame him. She wrapped her arms around herself, squeezing her own shoulders and calling upon her solitary courage. She would keep this incident to herself and do her best to put it out of her mind. She blinked open her eyes, and gathering the stationary, hurried out of the room.

Wilhelmina ran to the drawing room where her aunt was also writing and, with singleness of mind, completed her notes. Each one acknowledged the well wishes for her union with Alfred, the union coming closer with each envelope sealed. The happy commendations of so many friends warmed her heart and lifted her mood past the paranoid feeling that they had the blessing of all but the one soul who counted. Deliberately, she tucked the fearful thoughts away and once again inhabited her role as bride. 

Her mental calisthenics sufficed through dinner, but when she found herself alone again, the unnerving ambient sensation returned. After that, it would not leave her. Through a restless sleep and into the next day, it hung about like a further dimension of the persistent fog, hovering in the moments between all of her engagements, lurking even as she stole a moment to herself to practice her Chopin. 

Resolutely, again and again, she pushed down her fear and decisively placed her attention elsewhere, but the presence would not be denied. Mysterious activity had beset her eyes and ears – lights extinguished for no reason, sounds of movement with no visible source, and inexplicable changes in the condition of every barrier opening, doors and windows flung open to the cold or slammed shut to frustrate passage through the rooms. It was more than any vicious prankster could manage and she could not dismiss or ignore it. 

Rigid with fear, she played the piano with a sort of thin staccato, her fingers having lost their grace. The piece, so sweeping and mournful, plinked out in ruined fashion. Why on Earth had she not chosen something cheerful? The answer seemed to drift behind her in the doorway. To herself, she argued nerves, perhaps even madness, but belief had lodged in her core. She could perceive, and he had made himself known to her. 

Wilhelmina could not be sure what terrified her more, the very existence of a restless spirit – Drummond’s spirit – come to torment her, or the dreadful implication that he wished to disturb her union with Alfred. Doubts, more fundamental than any she had yet entertained, formulated in her mind, and by the time the Angelseys arrived Wednesday evening, she was in a state of agitation made worse by a message from Alfred that he was delayed.

She would receive Alfred’s parents, Adelaide, Fred, and Septimus in the library where the distraction of her improvements might overcome her shaky disposition. On the prospect of convivial company, the haunting sensations retreated. Still she glanced at Drummond’s portrait with a mix of trepidation and pleading. She wished Alfred would hurry and join them so he might give the explanation of the piece. She took a deep breath, smoothed her skirts, and found a cheerful enough expression. A few minutes after the clock chimed seven, the party arrived.

The reunion was warmer than she had imagined, beginning with the Marchioness’s unrestrained embrace. Anticipation bubbled and fizzed from her whole being, a childlike happiness only a proud mother could know. The Marquess too was full of warmth. Adelaide’s usual enthusiasm was subdued, and Wilhelmina suspected it had something to do with her thickened waist, the pale look of seasickness, and her immediate request for Fred to fetch her bland biscuits. Septimus hung back then made a great show of kissing her hand and teasing that she had done away with Alfred already. He looked rested, carefree and handsome, but still wore a nominal, narrative bandage around his left hand. Somehow, he had wangled an extended domestic stay and had been touring barracks throughout the kingdom conducting training exercises. He complained of their tedium, his longing for action, but Wilhelmina could see through the pretense and knew how glad he was to be there. 

Alfred arrived only minutes before the call to dinner. He came across the room to greet her first, giving her a chaste peck on the lips and a more ardent squeeze in the small of her back. Though she smiled at him warmly, he recognized the effort and caught the telltale look of fear before she could conceal it. Seeing her wish, he pretended not to notice and turned to his family, greeting them each in turn, sharing the gladness of being together again. As members of the party resumed their chats, Alfred made his way over to his desk, discreetly rifling through the mail that had been placed there. Seeing a particular letter, his face lit up with excitement. He motioned to Septimus to join him, and they entered a brief hushed dialogue. Wilhelmina looked at them curiously, but they did not invite disclosure and bent more toward each other, Septimus placing his hand on Alfred’s arm in some gesture of support. The puzzling exchange ended with Alfred tucking the letter into his coat and signaling to Beale to call them to dinner.

The dining room shone as it had in the Regency days. The paneled mural remained with its fanciful birds perched on exotic trees against a celadon backdrop as did the large oval mirrors and the chandelier with its dripping beads of crystal still candle lit. The wainscoting had a freshly glossed finish, and the fine oak chairs were newly reupholstered in a celadon stripe of the same tonal hues as the damask drapes. The order of seating around the dining table had a strange newness both to Wilhelmina, who had not much anticipated it, and to Alfred, who had, but was surprised by his own humility in taking on the role. For the first time since their engagement, they were stationed apart, facing each other but with a gulf of oak, linen, porcelain, and silver between them – not children nor guests nor attendants, but hosts. It would be a good trial, for there could not have been a more charitable audience assembled. Easy joy ringed the table but for an awkward moment or two when the chirpy discussion fell silent and Alfred saw again the distracted secret trouble flash in Wilhelmina’s eyes.

When the meal was finished and the guests were refreshing themselves and preparing to withdraw to the music room, Alfred pulled Wilhelmina aside. Stroking her cheek, he said “Darling, your eyes betray your nerves. Something has happened again to frighten you.” She looked down, wishing he would not see the confirmation. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and for a moment let her head rest against his. “It is alright. You can tell me,” he whispered.

She looked up and searched his face. It had the pained, worried furrow between the eyebrows, but his eyes held the same compassion as his touch. “Yes, Alfred,” she confessed in a hushed tone, “the awful sensation hovers ‘round me every moment I am alone and there has been terrible mischief about the house.” Alfred inclined his head in a questioning invitation. She continued, “Lights, doors, inexplicable echoes of motion. It sounds silly when I say it, but it has happened. I promise, I have tried to put it out of my mind, but Alfred, I believe,” she hesitated to speak beyond abstraction, “I am certain he wants my attention and perhaps wishes to disturb us.” Saying this, her eyes grew wide and watery.

Alfred pressed her head against his shoulder, offering her comfort and buying himself time to respond. He waited too long. She pulled back, looking directly at him, and blinking away her tears. Her whole body tensed as she rushed to ask, “Alfred, is it wrong, our union? Do we cross a love inviolate? Shall we be always haunted?”

This time, Alfred needed no hesitation. Fear of her doubt and the ruin of his hard-won peace shot through him. Instantly, his eyes flashed a mix of worry and reassurance as he took her shoulders and stroked her upper arms in vigorous motions. “No, no, my darling,” he protested. “It was death crossed that love. We could never do more.” He embraced her tightly. “These doubts of yours, what can I do to allay them?”

“I don’t know, Alfred,” she murmured into his coat, “I don’t know.” The moment was cut short by the sound of a knock on the doorframe. Looking up, they saw Septimus leaning through the opening. He had the devilish look of a sleuthhound having caught his mark, but his face fell when he saw theirs.

“My humble apologies,” he said. “They are all waiting in the music room and sent me to fetch you. What shall I tell them?”

“Nothing,” replied Wilhelmina, straightening her shoulders as she dabbed her eyes and pinched roses into her cheeks. “We shall come with you.” She nodded at Alfred to indicate she was composed and moreover satisfied to leave the discussion unresolved. Worry remained on his face, but he did not protest and took her arm, leading her past Septimus who had stepped aside to let them through. As they walked, Wilhelmina forced a curious smile and looked back over her shoulder, saying lightly, “Whatever were the two of you whispering about before dinner?”

Septimus shot a questioning and deferential look into the back of Alfred’s head. Alfred could see it without turning around and, to Septimus’s relief, beat him to the obligation to reply. “Ah, Wils Darling,” he said placing his free hand reassuringly on her arm, reticent to add to her nerves. “Please don’t be alarmed, but there is a bit of private business I must attend to tomorrow in Suffolk. I shall take Septimus with me, and I promise to return before Friday’s banquet.” Despite the admonition, Wilhelmina indeed looked alarmed. “A good thing Wils, I promise,” he said with a wink. It landed flat, as she returned an expression of disbelief and lingering trouble that would undermine the confidence of even the most self-assured bridegroom.

There was no time for further discussion. The music room, full of expectant company, opened before them. They entered with performative smiles, showering apologies and offers for Wilhelmina to play. After her afternoon’s horror with Chopin, she could not bear to play it and rifled through her folios until she found a bit of Wesley. To her relief and the delight of the gathered company, she played well. When she had finished, Fred offered to take a turn performing old folk tunes effortlessly from memory.

The Paget siblings fell into jovial argument with their father while the Marchioness told the Duchess of the history of the house and of that room in particular. From the standpoint of aesthetics, it was one she loved, and she was glad Wilhelmina had chosen to leave it unchanged. The walls and ceiling were painted a matte light blue with intricate white plasterwork laced together across them, most concentrated along the crown moulding but extending in vertical tendrils between the three rear windows and around the frame of the door to where it met its reprise along the chair rail. The entire effect was that of standing inside a piece of Wedgewood Jasperware. 

Wilhelmina joined the women just as the Duchess was excusing herself. The Marchioness was pleased to have caught her alone. “Wilhelmina Dear,” she said softly, looking directly into her face. “If I may, have the nerves of a bride called upon you?”

The question took Wilhelmina by surprise, though upon reflection, she should have expected it. The Marchioness was every bit as perceptive as Alfred, but by nature and experience, a good measure less tactful. Wilhelmina made a weak smile and said, “I suppose they have Mama, and I a poor job of hiding them.”

“Never mind that, Dear. It is perfectly normal for a bride, and not for the silly reason we are meant to suppose. What a thing to join your life to another! And these Paget men,” she waved at the Marquess, catching his puzzled eye, “they are an extraordinary case entirely.” At this, Wilhelmina let out a little giggle and broke a genuine smiled. The Marchioness returned her grin and continued, “Dear, have faith. Life can be a thing of wonder if you let it. What was that phrase you gave me? Love and courage? But to have had such pithy distillation all my life!”

Wilhelmina took heart from the Marchioness’s mothering. Through all the tangled memories, this moment would stand out for a lifetime. She went to bed that night feeling lighter than she had in weeks yet wondering if such love were too good to be true. 

********************************

Alfred and Septimus left London at sunup. The ride to Long Melford could be accomplished by midafternoon if they rode well and changed horses in Chelmsford. They were more than up to the task and indeed relished the opportunity to break away from the clamour of festivity. Once out of the city, the fog lifted, and the weather improved. While it could not be called sunny or warm, one could at least see past twenty yards. A light bluster, combined with nascent opening leaf buds, gave the trees a look of vibration. The pasture lands were greening and full of new lambs, and the farm fields gave off the odor of freshly turned soil and rich manure. The two men – officers, brothers, dearest confidants – rode in welcome silence for several hours. 

Against the bucolic backdrop, Alfred’s mind churned with the questions Wilhelmina had voiced the night before. His response had been instantaneous, sprung from a source beyond contemplation. He meant it. He had been sure, but her doubts lodged in his stomach, tightening and twisting. Were they indeed haunted? Would they never wrest themselves from the shadows of tragedy? And dear Drummond. What of the man shot through the heart, from whom death had stolen both life and love? 

Alfred wanted to believe Drummond, so bent on self-determination, would not begrudge him an embrace of the future. He needed it to be true. Yet, entertaining such thoughts felt like touching madness, and he shuddered imperceptibly to anyone but Septimus. To steady himself, he breathed in the damp and earthy air and shifted his attention to the reliable distraction of the landscape. Along the side of the road appeared a stand of shrubs in bright green leaf, already broken of their dormancy. He recognized them. They were the same as the one Wilhelmina has pointed out to him on that wild day six months ago. She had promised Spring would come, and it had, to the land and to them. Somehow, he must convince her its denial would be a madness greater than its embrace.

Nearing their stop, the pastoral land gave way to the steeples of churches, then mills, factories, and homes. A new railway station was under construction. Alfred and Septimus exchanged commentary on the growth of towns and cities and the railways that would speed up the project, a natural and interesting topic, but not the one on either man’s mind. They ate and conversed politely with the officers of the garrison where they changed horses, then swiftly set off again. 

Past Chelmsford, they entered a rocky, uneven stretch of road that slowed their horses to a walk. The silence they had enjoyed turned as tedious as the undeclared contest for who could hold out the longest. Septimus knew he would lose, that he must lose, but he struggled for an opening. Finally, growing restless in his saddle, he decided on a direct confrontation, painful perhaps, but quick. “Dear brother,” he began, “what was that I interrupted last night?”

Alfred was surprised only by his brother’s patience thus far. His answer served to stretch it further. “Is it not the standard for a bride to find herself beset with nerves?” he asked.

“How should I know?” responded Septimus in exasperation. “I can tell you the look on your face was no standard for a bridegroom awaiting nothing but a signature.”

“Sept, you watch your implication,” leveled Alfred testily.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake Alfred,” said Septimus, rolling his eyes dramatically, “It’s the openest secret in Britain. Now, returning to the matter at hand.” He trailed off, telling Alfred with his eyes he expected an answer.

Alfred at last capitulated, “Sept, be warned, this will sound mad.”

“I submit to being warned. Now out with it,” demanded Septimus.

“Wils has it in her head that Drummond’s spirit has returned to disturb our plans,” said Alfred looking directly at Septimus to gauge his reaction. Septimus took the confession dispassionately and gestured for Alfred to continue. He went on, “Something has terrified her. I believe that. But I cannot bring myself to harbor such superstition. I have tried to proffer the explanations of inordinate pressures, and I have tried to help, but she will not be persuaded. Worse, her certainty on the matter gives rise to grave doubt with regard to our union.” His voice dropped to its lowest register as he said, “That is what you saw. Now, I must confess my own dread at the prospect of her doubt. Sept, I have endured the road back from Hell. Shall my deliverance now withdraw?” He paused, on the edge of speaking. Septimus allowed space for him to ponder, long enough to cross a bridge over a stream where a couple of carefree boys were gleefully threatening to shove each other in. The men waved at their bygone reflections. Alfred shook his head then stared at his brother with pleading eyes, “Sept, do you believe it possible?”

“Mama would tell you to review your Blake,” Septimus replied.

“I know quite well what Mama would tell me,” Alfred rejoined, “I wish to know what _you_ say.”

Septimus took a moment to form his thoughts. He would not have another chance to make himself clear. “I do not know, Alfred,” he said plainly. “All I can tell you is while you have seen many things, none of them is a battlefield. It is in that appalling place the line between the horrors and ecstasies of this world and the next is indistinct. I cannot swear to the dead’s eternal rest nor against the madness of fear.” He paused to make sure he had Alfred’s eye. “Now, I ask you, would it make any difference?”

Alfred turned the question over in his mind, searching his soul for the answer. Finally, he said, “What difference could it make? I cannot hold a phantom any more than a memory, and I cannot believe my existence in loneliness and misery could possibly bring peace to his soul. Surely, that would not be his wish.” He shook his head again before looking at Septimus directly. “No, Sept. I do not waiver in my desire to pursue my life, nor in my love for Wils.”

“That is your answer then,” said Septimus in a soft, distinct tone he rarely employed, “Tell her that. Find her alone and tell her. It is nothing you can promise in church.”

*******************************

Wilhelmina woke to a gust of damp air sweeping across her cheek. She shivered as it stole whatever confidence the Marchioness had inspired. She sat up in bed looking for the source and finding her window flung open. As she stared out at the indistinct whiteness, mesmerized by the slowly bobbing forks of tree branches, she heard the crash of breaking porcelain from within her sitting room. She vaulted from her bed and ran through the door. The room was presently deserted if it had been occupied at all. In the floor lay the shards of a chinois vase among scattered stems of spring camellia blossoms in shades of pink, white, and red. A pool of clear water crept along the floorboards, seeping into the fringe of the carpet. From it, she picked up a folded note. Grey droplets fell from it onto her night dress as she flipped it open to find that the ink had run and blurred, leaving only the distinctive _A____ in the bottom corner.

Fear encountered indignance as she scooped up the hapless flowers. This madness could not go on. She must discover a way to overpower it. In the meantime, she did not want to spend another minute alone. She rang for Alice, her new lady’s maid, who dressed her and put up her hair with as much speed as she could manage. Wilhelmina left her with instructions to salvage the lovely camellias and hurried past her breakfast to the Duchess of Buccleuch’s house in Mayfair. There, she found ease in the company of her aunt, her cousin Edie, and Edie’s stepmother Lady Morgaine. Even her mother was a welcome companion compared to the one she suspected lurked at home. The day whirled by, in and out of her aunt’s fine tea party. She would remember giggling with her friends and the rich flavor of the delicate fruited petit fours, the way she almost forgot her troubles. But night came too soon and with too much commotion, and she wished she had stayed at her aunt’s and crawled into the foot of the bed in the child’s way of vanquishing a nightmare. As it was, she could think of no way to dislodge the disturbing presence from her midst.

****************************

The sun was casting long shadows by the time Alfred and Septimus met the agent in Long Melford. He insisted on tea before taking them the few miles up the road to a derelict iron gate covered in vines. Around the gate grew an ancient hedge of yew obscuring the view. The three men entered through its tunnel onto a long straight crushed gravel drive set in an expanse of weedy lawn upon which stood the once stately Wynnefield Hall. The drive terminated at the façade of the symmetrical red brick building, divided into five bays, the second and fourth recessed, the others fashioned with ecru quoins and gabled roofs. The central bay contained the main door over which hung a peeling ornamental Georgian pediment. The windows were boarded or overrun with ivy, and two of the six chimneys appeared to need repair.

“Speak of your haunted house,” exclaimed Septimus looking up at the imposing mansion.

Alfred threw Septimus a pained glance and took his horse around to the back then on to the stable and the far corners of the smallish estate. The agent led them though the interior, explaining in hushed tones that much of the original land had been sold to pay the debts of the late owner. What remained had been uninhabited for more than two years and had become a burden to the company that held it. It was available in its present condition for any fair offer. The agent then excused himself to check on some nondescript, perhaps imaginary matter. Alfred turned to Septimus with a glimmer. “The foundations are sound. Do you think it could be revived?” he asked.

“Dear brother, what do I know of houses?” replied Septimus. “It looks to me like a tremendous project.”

“That is precisely what I find so attractive,” said Alfred. “I want Wils and me to have someplace of our own, one we can shape to our desires. She has proven quite talented, and I should hope to give her some delightful occupation in which to engage whilst I am away. Her spirit soars in the face of challenge. To spend her days shut indoors with nothing more than pointless visitations to punctuate the boredom would only secure her unhappiness.”

“This is for her then?” asked Septimus.

“If I can restore her faith …” Alfred trailed off, his brow furrowed. Then catching his brother’s eye, he said directly, “I must put some stake in the future, Sept. For her and for me.” As he spoke the words, he looked out through the waning dusky light and imagined life in this place – quiet evenings of respite, lively house parties, teaching his yet fanciful children to ride, and Wilhelmina, unburdened and smiling, cutting flowers from her garden. Having formed the happy image, he needed no further deliberation. He did not wait for Septimus to speak again and, instead, clapped him on the shoulder and, with a wily half smile, set off the find the agent.

****************************************************

Alfred and Wilhelmina arrived separately to the banquet dinner at Uxbridge House, the Angelsey’s London residence in Mayfair. True to his word, Alfred was not late. He was dressed in a finely cut dark suit with a white tie and waistcoat and appeared content and charming, though perhaps preoccupied. He and Septimus were huddled conspiratorially with their mother when Wilhelmina entered the reception hall where the party was gathering before dinner. She wore a gown of deep iridescent azure taffeta, free of lavish ornament save the ruffled drape across her bare shoulders that formed a wide vee, its point nestled with a rosette in the center of the bust. Fresh roses and pearls adorned her hair, and she looked splendid if perhaps not quite well rested. 

She had spent the day too much in her own mind, allowing her humming nerves to fix her in place for minutes at a time, then reeling as she tried to parse imagination from reality, sanity from madness. Knowing she must not let on, she had occupied the ride from Grosvenor Place praying silent steady prayers, cultivating an air of cheerful calm, and honing her attention to the external world. Now she appeared warm and graceful, the knot in the pit of her stomach well hidden from all but the ones who could always see.

Alfred hurried to greet her, lifting coupes of champagne off the tray of a passing footman. He held it out to her as he swooped in to kiss her cheek. “Good evening my darling,” he said. “How magnificent you look!”

“Good evening,” she replied with a smile. “I trust your trip was a success?” Their voices sent cheerful tones into the room, but between their eyes was the unfinished business from two nights prior – hanging questions, looming doubts, and a terrible twisting impatience to address them. Alfred started to ask her for a moment alone, but he was interrupted by Briggs’s announcement that Wilhelmina’s family was at the door. Frustration flashed across his face but only for a second before he made the mental shift to his general courtly demeanor. Wilhelmina sucked in an audible breath and grabbed his hand, her worries over their fate shoved aside by her worries over the strain of relations and the overwhelming preference to have him near. He led her across the room to stand by his parents, downing his champagne on the way. Putting his arm around her waist, he pulled her tight to his side.

Briggs stepped through the door and began to announce the guests. “Her Grace, the Duchess of Buccleuch and the Honorable Lady Jane Coke.” Wilhelmina’s aunt and mother entered and joined the line, Lady Jane’s raptor eyes habitually scrutinizing but, to Wilhelmina’s relief, with a chastened respect for the turf she occupied.

“The Right Honorable Lord and Lady Hatton.” Lord Thomas and Lady Morgaine looked as fine and unconventional as ever. He had become slightly unsteady and had taken to wearing small wire-rimmed spectacles since Wilhelmina last saw him. He peered over the top of them to send a warm glance her way. He leaned a bit on Lady Morgaine whose flowing gown and fur trimmed cape could not be described as unfashionable so much as never having been in fashion. Her coppery hair was piled atop her head in an intricate series of plaits woven with silk ribbons and an excess of fresh flowers, and a streak of white ran from her prominent widow’s peak through one of the plaits as it wrapped her head. Long earring with tassels of crystal beads brushed her shoulders as she walked. While she carried herself unselfconsciously, as though tradition and propriety ran through her veins, nothing about her appearance was meant to combat her reputation for mysticism. That she was instantaneously and overpoweringly likable had always excused her oddness, and tonight was no exception. 

“The Honorable Mr. Russell Prescott and Lady Prescott.” Edie and her husband followed the Hattons into the room. Of all the guests, they seemed most full of unalloyed happiness to take part in the wedding. Edie was the closest thing Wilhelmina had to a sister and would serve as her matron of honour. They were fond of Alfred too, and were pleased to see their melancholy houseguest had found his way. They crossed the room to shower their warm greetings then joined the arc of waiting revelers.

All that remained were Wilhelmina’s brothers, though the sounds of carriages outside indicated the number would soon compound with the addition of Alfred’s siblings. Briggs was unphased. “The Honorable Mr. and Mrs. Richard Coke, the Honorable Mr. Edmund Coke, and the Honorable Mr. and Mrs. Charles Coke,” he announced. The group stepped through the door. Richard looked older than Wilhelmina remembered. He had gone entirely grey and sported a neatly trimmed beard that craftily drew attention from his bulging waistline. The years had not been kind, or perhaps he wore the wages of his notorious excesses. On his arm was his sullen wife dressed in drab fawn silk and black lace. She had been pretty once, at her own wedding when Wilhelmina was just five years old, scattering flower petals along the aisle, but her looks had gone the way of exhaustion and anxiety. She stood in contrast to Charles’s wife who, ten years younger and animated by a hateful need for supremacy, liked to draw attention. She too wore black lace and fringe over a loudly patterned floral silk with numerous flounces over the hoops of her skirt. She was all too quick to drop her husband’s arm. Charles glared and rolled his eyes at the back of her head. He looked like Richard in every aspect except for his athletically trim form and black hair only just showing salty patches at his temples. 

Edmund, the middle brother, hung back. At first, only his tall frame and shock of thick red hair were visible from behind his brothers. He was alone, his wife having died going on three years past. They had been married only six years, and he was left with four young unruly children, presumably in the care of Richard’s older brood. When he finally stepped in, he moved to greet Wilhelmina directly. Of all her immediate family, he had always been kindest to her, and she saw a sort of apologetic love in his weary eyes. 

Having endured announcements and introductions, the party eagerly broke out of formation. Alfred’s siblings began to trickle in informally, as glad for reunion amongst themselves as any other reason. Wilhelmina greeted all the party from Plas Newydd and Alfred’s brother Clarence, the MP of rising prominence she had met a few times at before at court. The rest were new faces, many she would never really know. Such was the way of large families, and in their own disconnected way, her small one too. She wondered again if she and Alfred would really be able to build upon the good, discard the ugly, and invent something new and better for themselves. She had no doubt in their shared wish, but the now constant haunting sensations had shaken her hard-won confidence in the power of will. 

Her trepidation only increased when Edmund, looking worried and ashamed, took her aside to a quiet corner. “Wilhelmina, though it be the worst of times, there is something I must tell you,” he said hesitantly. “The agency is in trouble. Richard has squandered every last penny of Father’s fortune, what was left of it anyway. He and Charles lost the bulk in some railway scheme and had to put up the building to settle their gambling debts. It is all I can do to keep Mother in the house and the children at school.”

Wilhelmina gasped and tears welled in her eyes. “Edmund, I had no idea. Why did you wait to tell me now?” she asked.

Edmund replied with exasperation, perhaps not at her, but clearly at his wits end, “Dear sister, do you not see what is at my feet? I am run ragged. I would have thought Mother would have informed you.”

“Mother informs me of nothing but my shortcomings,” said Wilhelmina flatly.

“I am sorry for that Wilhelmina, truly sorry, but now you know,” he said. “There is not much left, and you should not expect more, but I managed to secure your dowry in a trust.” Wilhelmina understood, by Coke standards, this was an act of great generosity. She thanked Edmund sincerely and offered her hope that he might extract himself from the failings of their other brothers. Their discussion ended with the sound of the gong summoning everyone to dinner. Wilhelmina reached out to squeeze her brother’s forearm before turning away to find Alfred. 

They sat together, the unavoidable center of attention, only wishing they could be alone. Masterfully, they did not betray themselves. A surprising outbreak of good behaviour took hold of the gathered company until Septimus stepped in to save the family’s reputation with a ribald toast that skirted the very edges of delicacy but managed no more serious implications than were already well known. A fine pudding of cake and marzipan was served, and they were through it. 

The festivity now began in earnest with ever more champagne, lively conversations, and a few of Alfred’s older sisters taking turns at the piano. Wilhelmina brought Alfred around to each of her brothers. She owed him and them at least that much. Edmund took pains to shake himself of his preoccupations, congenially inquiring about military life and explaining their business as solicitors. Charles stuck to matters of sport and found common ground on the topic of thoroughbreds. The effort was more than Wilhelmina expected. 

Richard was another matter. Already several drinks in, he found no pleasure in polity and no obligation to Wilhelmina. She suspected he was angry about the dowry and wondered why he had come at all. He stared at Alfred inquisitively. “Explain to me, if you would,” he said, flicking something out from underneath his fingernail, “what it is that you do. I cannot piece together whether you are Her Majesty’s bodyguard, her accountant, or her dancing partner.”

“I do whatever is necessary,” responded Alfred with a slight lift of his eyebrow. 

Richard looked incensed at the vague answer. “I see,” he said, returning his attention to his fingernails then looking up with an imitation of concern, “And, if the papers are to be believed, I understand you have something of a penchant for risking yourself to play the hero. Do you intend to put that little diversion aside or make of my sister a wretched widow?”

“Doubtful,” answered Alfred coolly, refusing to condescend. “You see, I am quite good.” 

Alfred offered no more and wore a nonchalant, perhaps even sly smile, as though he might be having a bit of fun. But Wilhelmina’s blood boiled at Richard’s meanness, and an instinctive desire to protect Alfred from talk of dead heroes shot through her. She had reached the end of her generosity. “I shall answer your real question, Richard,” she said, leveling a flat stare. “The answer is yes. He could kill you and you would never see it coming. Now, if you will excuse us.” She looped her arm in Alfred’s and gave him no choice but to turn and leave.

Alfred moved his arm around her back and stroked it in a calming motion as he took over the lead and headed in the direction of the bar stationed at the far end of the room. He wound his route past Septimus and without drawing attention, gave him a faint tap. At the bar, he procured a brandy for Wilhelmina and placed it in her shaking hands, then catching the eye of the Marchioness, nodded almost imperceptibly.

As Wilhelmina sipped her brandy, she heard Septimus’s booming voice call across the room, “I say Mr. Coke! I should be most obliged to have the layman’s perspective on the role of the East India Company versus the Crown…” She could see too that the Marchioness was in motion, ushering the Duchess, Lady Coke, and a few other women into a drawing room and signaling to Adelaide, who commandeered the attention of Wilhelmina’s sisters-in-law and followed. 

Wilhelmina’s face turned to bewilderment as she looked to Alfred for explanation. He gave none but motioned for her to finish her drink then, looking into her eyes assuredly, and said, “Come.” Swiftly, he led her to the great French doors leading to the terrace at the back of the house. There a footman was waiting with their cloaks. They stepped outside into the quiet night, the doors shutting behind them, muffling the jovial buzz of the party that continued unaware of their absence. 

Torches mounted to the wall of the house flickered and reflected off the stone of the terrace. Its expanse terminated in a set of steps spanning its length, descending to a perfect rectangle of lawn where swirling mist had settled, making it appear like an abyss. Overhead, jagged taupe clouds tracked like passing warships, opening and closing gaps to the deep black expanse of sky and its full, impossibly bright, luminescent punctuation. 

Alfred stepped to a corner of the terrace sheltered by an old ash that leaned and reached away from the garden walls. The spot was cozy and quite private, as it could not be seen from any room in the house but afforded a view of the terrace doors. He beckoned Wilhelmina to join him. She came with tears in her eyes. “My darling, it is alright,” he said in a soothing tone, though he was not precisely sure to what he referred. Calmly, he took her hands in his and looked into her troubled eyes.

“But it is not, Alfred. It is not alright,” she said. Worry crossed his face, but he remained steady, inviting her with his eyes to elaborate. She continued, “I cannot bear the way they have spoken to you. Why do they not just stay away? Do you know, they are nearly ruined?”

“Ah, that makes sense,” he replied. “Envy too is the ruin of decency. But you need not fret for me on that account. I did not bring you out here to speak of your family.” He took a quick breath as though he might continue but the words did not come. The unfinished business between them swirled, as uneasy and nebulous as the clouds and mist, and Wilhelmina saw that he was fearful too. She waited for his direction, unable to bring up the topic of her dread again. He closed his eyes, reviewing what he meant to say, finding his way in. When he opened them, she saw the fear was tempered with hope. He squeezed her hands before asking, “I don’t suppose anything has changed since the other night?”

“No,” she whispered, looking down at the fog enveloping the hem of her gown, thinking of the camellia blossoms strewn across the floor. “If anything, the happenings only increase. Oh, if only it _were_ my imagination. Alfred, I know that it is not.”

“And you still believe these happenings are manifestations of,” he hesitated, tensing slightly, “of Drummond’s spirit? That somehow he means to cast doubt upon us?” She nodded, closing her eyes, and letting the tears run down her cheeks. He picked up her chin and looked at her with an openness that told her he accepted her belief. The raw pain of reopened wounds throbbed within him, yet he sought to bind them in the only way he could abide. He continued, “The ride these last two days gave me hours to think. Wils, I might accept, with the heaviest of hearts, that Drummond is denied the peace in death he was surely owed in life, but I cannot believe he would want the same for me. There must be something else. If you would grant a speculation, perhaps he only wishes not to be forgotten by the only people who ever really knew him.” He paused for her to receive his claim. Searching her face, he found she did not reject it. He brushed the tears from her cheeks with affection and gave her a warm, hopeful smile. “As for doubt,” he said, straightening his shoulders resolutely, “Do you remember the first time I kissed you?” Again, she nodded. The memory brought fresh tears of perilous joy. “I told you I was quite sure. Well,” he wrapped one arm around her shoulder and the other around her waist, crushing his palm into the small of her back as he kissed her deeply, lingering in the urgency, then pulling away softly. “I am quite sure.”

He searched her face again for any sign of confidence and found the hint of a smile. Seeing it, he pressed on, “Let us not give in to doubt nor any interference. Should the whole world be against us, I do not waiver in my intention, and I will not let anything lie between us … not even Drummond. I have submitted before, my love for him is a flame that cannot be extinguished – I will not deny it, even for your sake – but a flame, Wils, has no substance, nothing one can hold. Let it cast its shadows upon the wall, but know that I am here with you in full measure. If he haunts us, we shall find a way to make peace. Now, there is something I must ask you. Wilhelmina, can I count on you tomorrow? Will you make me the happiest of men?” 

Standing close in front of her, his whole self exposed, Alfred had proposed to her all over again. A rush of emotion overcame her as she remembered herself. It was not his kiss, though it sent waves of pleasure to her toes, nor his well-crafted speech, but her own memory of his first proposal, of the conclusions upon which she had acted – the courage to remain despite imperfect love. How had she forgotten? Her face recaptured the tumultuous mix of love, happiness, fear, and defiance that only she could hold at once, and Alfred knew her answer. She rose up on her toes and leaned in to kiss him again.

Soon after, the door opened and a footman left two drinks on a nearby cart, a sign they would be missed if they remained much longer. They looked at each other, still tenuous but united in intention and relief, sealing their pact with a last kiss before taking the drinks in hand and reentering the fray. Few had noticed their absence as the bottles of champagne were emptied into the ether of revelry. Close to midnight, the party wound down with Wilhelmina claiming her right to a good night’s sleep. As she departed, offering her fervent thanks, the Marchioness slipped a small box tied with a sapphire ribbon into her hand. “For your trousseau,” she whispered.

Once inside her coach, quiet and alone, drifting through the fog on the last night before all the dress rehearsals became simply life, Wilhelmina contemplated the delicate balance required of her and all who loved without condition. She pondered the ways Alfred loved her, his unfailing desire to make wonderful the circumstances of her life without declaring any need for improvement. She admired his determination to find love in infinite iterations and to see wholeness where others could only ever see parts. She hoped it would be enough. So much remained unknown and thus terrifying. Questions of imagination, nerves, and madness clawed at her once more as the coach pulled onto Grosvenor Place, and number 42 loomed out of the mist. She had made her promise as irrevocably as if it had been already the morning. Now she must not allow cracks in her resolve. As she gathered her things to exit the coach, her eyes fell on the little box. She paused to open it. Inside a note rested on top of a folded handkerchief trimmed in delicate antique lace. By the light of the streetlamp, she read:

_The lace is old, but the stitchery is new._  
Don’t give this one away!  
\- M___ 

Wilhelmina unfolded the crisp white cloth to find a monogram stitched in periwinkle tread. She looked closely at finely embroidered calligraphy. At first, expecting to see her own initials, she could not make it out, but after a moment she realized it was not a monogram at all. The loops and swirls formed an intertwined L and C. She brought the handkerchief to her heart, finally certain and emboldened by its coded message. She entered the house prepared to face whatever may come.

Glancing into the library, she found the lights were on dimly and the windows open to the seeping fog. A book she had not read lay open on the table. The creepy scene failed to surprise her, and she let out a nervous laugh. It occurred to her that should there be a revenant afoot, she could confront him. She had nothing to lose if she could overcome her terror at the prospect. She paced the hall thinking of Alfred’s words, adding her own. The more definitely she planned her speech, the more certain she was she would give it. Outside the library door, she nearly turned back thinking of what horrible things might happen. As she stepped inside, she questioned her sanity. Was it not madness to believe in ghosts, much less to try to reason with one? She stood in front of Alfred’s desk. Waves of reflected light rippled across the deep azure silk of her gown and the crisp white of the handkerchief gripped tightly in her hands. She focused her attention on the portrait. It looked the same as ever, brilliant and charming and sad, so full of frozen life. She closed her eyes and sucked in her breath, giving herself one last opportunity to turn back. She could not. 

“Mr. Drummond,” she addressed him in as firm and confident a tone as she could muster. “You have my attention. I heed your manifestations. Now, we must find a way to have peace between us. Please, you must know you are not forgotten, not for the smallest moment, but do all you like – extinguish the lights, slam the doors, set the stairways to creaking in the night – there is no corporeal form for you to take, no earthly way to keep your company. You are dead, Sir! It is a sad and dreadful verity, more so that love should prevent you from your rest. I am dearly sorry for it. Those you left behind have wept for you, Alfred more so than anyone. Would you have him waste his days? I do not claim advantage at your expense, but I have vowed to look after him, to see him through this life, and, yes, to love him. Indeed, it was you who did not let me fail the night of the storm, was it not? Should you want less for him? Now, I make a promise to you. We shall keep a place for you in our hearts and in our home. You shall be loved and welcome always. I ask only this, dear friend – let your love inspire compassion for the wounds that neither kill nor heal, understand that we must carry on, and bless us to our worldly happiness.”

When she had finished her speech, she stood resolutely, staring at the portrait. There was no immediate response. She wondered if perhaps she had indeed gone mad. At least she was alone. No one would know she was, on the very night before her wedding, begging détente with her fiancé’s dead love. It was absurd, the most ridiculous case of nerves. She closed her eyes and relaxed her shoulders, preparing herself to go to bed and try to sleep. Mad or not, she had done what she could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are. Whew! Dear Readers, I know, it was a long chapter. Thanks for making your way through. It was also another tough one to write. There is so much more to every scene and all of the minor characters in my imagination. I tried to give you little sketches that enrich the detail of the story while staying on point. Let me know how I did and what speculations you have for Chapter 9…?
> 
> Floriography
> 
> We’ve done camellias before, but in this case the different colors would represent different aspects of love/admiration, and really I just love that Alfred wouldn’t take an impromptu, mysterious, and nerve-wracking trip out of town without leaving flowers.
> 
> Historical Notes
> 
> Samuel Wesley was English composer of the Georgian period, sometimes called the English Mozart. He was the son of Charles Wesley of Methodist Hymnal fame and had a fairly scandalous personal life.
> 
> Wynnefield Hall is entirely of my imagination. Wikipedia had Lord Alfred living at Melford Hall in Suffolk, but the National Trust site for Melford Hall contains no confirmation of his living there. Another stately home in the area, Kentwell Hall, has a wonderfully scandalous and interesting history to draw on too. Since we are deep into fiction territory anyway, I thought there would be a bit more narrative freedom in imagining a fictional estate nearby. 
> 
> Uxbridge House was the real London residence of the Marquess of Angelsey, but sadly, these days it’s a retail space.


	9. The Blessed Trinity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s Alfred and Wilhelmina’s wedding day, and everyone – yes everyone – is in attendance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The big day is finally here! Do you think they have been through enough? Haven’t we all? Is your disbelief good and suspended? Then, come along! Let’s have a little fun, shall we?
> 
> ********************************
> 
> _A heavy ecru envelope  
>  The tearing of thick paper  
> The pop of a wax seal  
> An invitation_
> 
> Dearest Reader,
> 
> _The honour of your presence is requested at the marriage of  
>  Miss Elizabeth Wilhelmina Coke  
> to  
> Major Lord Alfred Henry Paget  
> Saturday, the eleventh day of April Eighteen hundred and forty-seven at eleven o’clock in the morning.  
> The Royal Military Chapel, St. James Park.  
> Wedding Breakfast to follow at Buckingham Palace._
> 
> Remember to sign the guestbook!

Wilhelmina stood calm and still in front of Drummond’s portrait in the library, her eyes closed, her breath deep. To his spirit, she had spoken freely and truly, and she was prepared to live out her promise. Now, the unknowns of the future were out of her hands. In the hours since Alfred brought her out under the ash tree at Uxbridge House, she had come to understand perseverance not as a matter of escaping the past so much as incorporating it. Having made her mad case, there was nothing more to do than embrace the life to come and to give herself as fully to Alfred as he gave himself to her. 

She took a last hopeful breath, listening for any response. There was no sound, but as she opened her eyes and turned to leave, she was surrounded by a sensation of energetic warmth. She glanced back over her shoulder and smiled cautiously at the face in the sketch. The warm energy swelled in soothing motion, coaxing her toward the stairs. A hesitant relief spread through her body, and her heart took on a wonderous fullness that brought tears to her eyes. Quickly, she dabbed them with the handkerchief still clutched in her hand. She had cried enough this evening, though she could not criticize herself too harshly, as these tears held a finer meaning. She shut off the lights and climbed the two flights of stairs to her bedroom. The warm energy followed and seemed to wait outside her door as she changed into her night clothes and took down her hair. It joined her again, hovering beside her bed as she climbed in, almost touching her with its soothing ebb and flow. Then, when she had closed her eyes, it departed gently through the door, leaving the room filled with an air of benevolence and peace. “Thank you, dear friend” she whispered.

**********************************************

Past the wee hours of that morning, Alfred became aware that he was waking. His mind reached out to keep him in the dream place gently retreating from his consciousness. It was a formless space, free of gravity or any material objects, full of warm golden light and a tingling effervescence like being submerged in some sort of ethereal champagne. He was floating, perhaps falling slowly through it, unclothed and unencumbered, his awareness entirely tuned to the sensations of the space itself and the other body entwined with his, unidentified, unspeaking, yet intimately known. The being moved with him in graceful, ecstatic motions, cresting in a mystic euphoria as their bodies dissolved into one another. Last to fade was the golden light. The warmth remained but became the comfortable warmth of the soft featherbed in his room at the club. He turned over under it, stretching his arms and legs, feeling no tension in his body, finding himself in an incomparably good mood. He could not exactly place the reason. He knew he had been dreaming, but the gossamer memory eluded him. Now and again over the years, he would have the same dream, never quite being able to remember it.

Now fully awake, he glanced at the clock – ten past six – fewer than five hours until he was to be married. He smiled to himself, surprised at his own excitement. He had been so resigned to the perfunctory duty of a wedding and so preoccupied with the troubles of his bride that he had missed the delightful anticipation that might have accrued under different circumstances. Now, having faced the abyss of doubt and received Wilhelmina’s assurance, it felt like a new beginning might really be his. 

He put his feet on the floor and ran his fingers vigorously through his hair. An excitement began to build, a craving for action. He rubbed his hands together against the room’s morning chill and pulled on his trousers and shirt from the night before. Quietly, he left the room and crept down the passage past several doors until he arrived at the one where Septimus was sleeping. He knocked, first a light tap, then with no answer, a more resounding thump. From inside, he heard a groan and a muffled “It’s open.” At that, he turned the knob and burst in.

“Good morning Dear Brother!” he called. 

Septimus turned over to face the wall opposite Alfred, pulling his pillow over his head. He opened one eye toward the window. There was only a hint of grey light. “Bloody Hell Alfred, it’s not even dawn,” he groaned. Alfred was now beside his bed, shaking his shoulder. “Ughhh. You’re like a fucking cock.”

Alfred shook him again, saying, “With any luck, by four o’clock. Now get up!”

******************************************

The clear, joyful singing of newly arrived passerines sounded as dawn broke under the fog lingering about London. Above the fog, the long, jagged clouds, edges ever so slightly blushed, remained in motion, gliding westward at a jaunty clip, hinting at a turn in the weather, the foul tenure of which had extended more than a month. Wilhelmina woke to the sounds and sights of change. 

She felt delightfully rested, still bathing in the aura of peace remaining in the air. From a place of remove, she thought about the tumult and madness of the night before, indulging a rote temptation to wonder if it had all been a dream. No. She had come to new terms with a reality she could have never imagined then slept more soundly than she could remember and with no dreams at all. Now, waves of clear relief washed over her, and a joyful exuberance began to build. The day had come! The day she had hoped for, anticipated, imagined, and so often disbelieved was here, and she would accept no deterrent to its enjoyment. With arms extended above her head, she inhaled the scent of fresh pastry and her favorite breakfast tea and realized she was quite hungry now that her stomach was free of the bilious churning to which it had been given for so many days.

She wrapped her sacque around her shoulders and followed the delicious smells to her sitting room where a tray full of tea and breakfast awaited with a dainty silver vase sporting a single English rose, full and open, its colours like the ombré of daybreak. Placed next to the tray were the curious inclusions of a blank note card, a fountain pen, and a well of ink, plainly suggesting the need to write something. At once, it occurred to her that Alfred did not know what she had done, what benevolent thing had happened in return. He might be waking with the edgy, cautious confidence with which they had parted. Quickly, she finished her pastry and began to pen a heartfelt verse.

When she had filled the card with her sentiments, Wilhelmina rang for Beale. He turned up in an instant, and she addressed him, “Beale, I have two errands of critical importance I need done straight away. I would be most grateful if you would see to them personally. There is no one else I quite trust.”

“With pleasure, Ma’am,” nodded Beale.

“First, please take this note to Lord Alfred at his club and see that he gets it. On your way back, stop into the florist and bring me a large bunch of blue forget-me-nots. I must have them before we leave for the Chapel, so please go with speed.”

“Very well, Ma’am,” replied Beale.

*******************************************

In the dining room of their club, Alfred and Septimus were halfway through a hot breakfast when Harrison, the new valet with the war-wounded nose, appeared with a card in his hand. He held it out to Alfred who answered with an inquisitive look. “Beale brought this for you Sir. From your … from Miss Coke Sir,” he said. Alfred’s expression instantly changed to one of alarm if not slight panic. Septimus, also piqued with concern but determined to produce an air of nonchalance, leaned back against his chair, directed his attention to his coffee, and calmly held his breath. Alfred flipped open the card and read to himself:

_Upon brave hour amid thy bride’s dark night  
Our rev’nant friend in love did I confront  
With sentiments thou spokest true and right  
And death’s sad fact though it be cold and blunt_

_Whilst sweet form and face be long departed  
Sacred memory ne’er shall we elide  
Should rest be denied the broken hearted  
Promised I, shall with us his soul abide_

_Now join I with thee this very morrow  
Love’s pleasure to pursue in this lifetime  
Thy steadfast heart freely shall I borrow  
Until ye meet again in fields sublime_

_If gentle warmth doth signal his release  
Our love is blessed and in it three find peace_

Slowly, a smile began to break. He read the verse once more to be sure there was nothing he missed, then he snapped the card closed, shaking his head and grinning broadly. “Good news?” asked Septimus with a raised eyebrow and a tone of well-acted disinterest.

“Yes, quite,” replied Alfred still looking at the note, then looking directly at Septimus with a glint in his eye, he said, “Sept, I need you to do something for me.” Septimus returned his look with one conveying the sinking feeling his breakfast would not be finished. Alfred was undeterred. He signaled to Harrison for paper, a pen, and ink, which the man promptly produced from his satchel. With it, Alfred jotted something down and slid the note across the table to Septimus. Turning to his valet, he said, “My sincere thanks, Harrison. I shall join you upstairs in a few moments.”

“Very well, Sir,” replied Harrison as he gathered the writing supplies and left the table.

Catching his brother’s eye again, Alfred said in a low tone, “Take that and show it to Beale. He will produce for you a key to the ebony box on my desk. Put this card in the box. Take from it the silver locket and bring it here.” Septimus raised his eyebrow again, this time wondering at the wisdom of such an errand. Alfred reached across the table and, tapping the note, said, “Straight away, man. We have only a few hours until we shall be expected.” Septimus pushed back his chair, and snatching a couple of buns from the basket on the table, followed his orders.

********************************************

There was commotion at the door of 42 Grosvenor Place as Septimus, Beale, Mrs. Skerret, and a footman laden with Wilhelmina’s gown and bouquet all arrived at the same time. Seeing Alfred’s note, Beale foisted the armload of forget-me-nots on Mrs. Skerret and took Septimus to the library. Mrs. Skerret made her way upstairs.

There, Wilhelmina had just finished a bath and was getting into her undergarments with the help of Alice, her lady’s maid. She smiled with warmth and excitement at the site of the bunch of forget-me-nots. “Oh, thank you Skerret!” she exclaimed as she took them and placed them in a large vase she had readied earlier. “We must put some of these into my hair.” Mrs. Skerret responded with a puzzled glance, and seeing it, Wilhelmina briefly became contemplative then added softly, “For sentiment’s sake.” She neither elaborated nor corrected the obvious assumption of the servants that she referred to her late father.

“If I may ask,” said Mrs. Skerret, “who has the honour of giving you away?”

“My uncle, Lord Thomas Hatton,” replied Wilhelmina fondly. “He is a dear man and a dear friend.” She sat down at the vanity, and Mrs. Skerret got to work plaiting and curling her coppery blonde locks. She swept the back up into an elaborate braided knot and kept two sets of loose ringlets to frame Wilhelmina’s face, softly tumbling past her chin. In the space just above each ear, Mrs. Skerret placed silver and pearl combs to which she attached sprays of miniature roses that trailed along the path of the curls. Into these she gently wove the delicate clusters of forget-me-nots. Wilhelmina sat patiently while inside, her excitement for the day was growing.

Her gown was next, or more precisely its crinoline petticoat, then the layers of lustrous cream silk and delicate lace. The smooth skirt flowed from the gathered waist to the hemline where it gradually increased backward to form a noticeable, yet not extravagant, train. Deep, hidden pockets were sewn into the side seams, into which Wilhelmina folded the handkerchief the Marchioness had given her. The silk of the bodice fit snugly over her corset and darted to a deep vee, unembellished except for its prominent seams reinforcing the line. A drape of the same silk, folded into horizontal pleats, fell softly across her bust and just around the edges of her shoulders. The bottom of the drape was trimmed in fine Venetian lace patterned with intricate floral scallops, and in the center, Mrs. Skerret pinned another cluster of roses and forget-me-nots. From beneath the drape, short fitted sleaves reached midway down her upper arms, terminating in the same pleated folds and lace. The lace hung asymmetrically like the skirt with the front of the same length as the drape’s trim and the longer back drifting past her elbows. On her hands, she wore fingerless lace gloves and her sapphire ring, on her feet a pair of satin slippers, and around her neck her triple strand of pearls.

Wilhelmina looked into the glass and found herself the very picture of a bride. Mrs. Skerret appeared behind her, saying “Finishing touch,” as she anchored the lace trimmed veil underneath Wilhelmina’s bun. Alice came over and held out her wedding bouquet. 

While her gown made no statement beyond a rather expected elegance, her flowers – the one detail in which she had invested her attention and care – were another matter. Pints of ink would be spilled by society columnists parsing the floriography for what meanings one and all were meant to discern, thoroughly unsatisfied by coy explanations of springtime. Unlike the fashionable bunches of bright white orange blossom and myrtle that had become de rigueur since Victoria’s wedding, Wilhelmina’s flowers were a cascade of effusive, naturalistic blossoms and foliage tumbling from her hands nearly to the floor. With elegant subtlety, they admitted not to chastity, purity, or innocence, nor did they remark of romance. Limber branches of magnolia formed a rough architecture for the vernal spray and hosted a progression of rare lemon-coloured blossoms in all stages of bloom, from delicate open saucers to prim closed cups to still fuzzy buds on the tips. Gathered in the heart of the bouquet, voluptuous English roses the color of sunlight snuggled with curvaceous callas in hues of cream, warm vanilla, and pale tea green. Gracefully arching tulips, some smooth and soft as porcelain, some frilly and striped with veins of emerald, fell among them and down long trails of ivy and fern. Dripping from the hollows were the dainty clustered bells of pieris japonica. Wilhelmina chuckled to herself thinking how they were sometimes called Andromeda. She thought of Alfred and how he heartily refused the mantle of Perseus but saved her nonetheless from the loneliness and hardship a woman could call freedom. Together, they would explore the boundaries of love, and the prospect filled her with a radiant joy that reflected in the glass, a plainly visible splendor of emotion.

At that moment, Beale knocked, and being admitted, announced, “Miss Coke, your carriage awaits.”

“I shall be right down,” answered Wilhelmina as she stepped toward the vase of forget-me-nots. “I need just one more moment. Was that Lord Septimus I heard downstairs?”

“Yes, Ma’am.” 

“What the devil was he doing here? Is everything quite alright?”

“I believe Lord Alfred sent him to retrieve something, Ma’am,” answered Beale, and instantly Wilhelmina knew of what he spoke.

“Yes, of course,” she said half to herself, then repeated, “I shall be right down.”

“Very well, Ma’am,” said Beale, then allowing a faint smile added, “If I may Ma’am, you look lovely.”

“Thank you, Beale,” said Wilhelmina, simultaneously handing her bouquet to Alice. Swiftly, she cut a few clusters of the dainty blue flowers and tucked them in among the other blossoms. They were incongruous of course, and would only add to the public’s curiosity and speculation, but the private honour and the invitation they conveyed was more important to Wilhelmina than any aesthetic concern could ever be, an act of love only she and Alfred and, so she believed, dear Mr. Drummond could ever understand. She took the bouquet back into her hands and with watery eyes gazed into the glass once more, committing the image to memory before heading downstairs to her carriage and her future.

Lord Hatton, Lady Morgaine, and her cousin Mrs. Edie Prescott were waiting in the carriage. He sported a dark tailcoat and stock tie, light trousers, a double-breasted waistcoat in sapphire plaid silk, and a fine black top hat shading his wire spectacles. Lady Morgaine appeared quite proper in an ecru silk frock with a soft floral pattern in tones of jade, teal, and gold, wide bell sleeves, and a matching bonnet with a prominent jade ribbon and dyed silk flowers inside the brim. Edie, as matron of honor, wore a cream gown with long sleeves and a round neckline from which two lines of rich tonal embroidery ran vertically to the fitted waist then down the split skirt to the floor. Her hair looped smoothly over her ears and back to a chignon adorned with roses. They greeted Wilhelmina warmly and helped her to arrange her skirt upon the seat and wrap herself in a fine embroidered shawl, as the carriage was open to the still chilly air. Her own mother had declined to join them, claiming she would catch her death if she spent time in it, but perhaps, in her own way, it was a kindness to Wilhelmina to spare her the burden of their strained relationship.

The carriage set off through the translucent fog that persisted as though it wished to cloak London itself in a bridal veil. Crossing into the Palace gardens, Wilhelmina breathed in the familiar beauty of the place, a last moment of dreamy calm before her every movement and expression would be on display as she and Alfred finally wed. She looked skyward to see the clouds still in energetic motion, the blush of dawn replaced by shining edges of silver. When the carriage made the turn around Buckingham, she brought herself back into the world of the city and the moment at hand. She and Edie waved graciously as they passed through the park where Londoners lined the road to Birdcage Walk and the Royal Military Chapel, St. James Park at the Wellington Barracks. Called the Guards Chapel in all but official matters, the neoclassical building appeared like an ancient temple coalescing within the fog, similar in color but in its solidity clearly no mirage. The carriage pulled into its cobbled court, and the scale of the place became hospitable, as its great doors were softened with ropes of flowers and the posted guards allowed themselves shy smiles at the bride.

****************************************

From the anteroom where they had been waiting, Alfred, feeling a growing exhilaration, strode through the short passage to the sanctuary with Septimus behind. They took their positions in front of the alter steps, objects of a buzzing excitement. Both beamed dashingly in their dress reds, Alfred’s adorned with the gold roping and epaulets of the Household Brigade and Septimus’s with his several medals gleaming as brightly as the ridiculous white bandage on his hand. They looked out across the chapel at the assembled congregation. Every pew was occupied, the front with various branches of Cokes and Pagets and the Royal Family, invited guests behind them, and the remaining open seats with curious members of the public who had waited to glimpse the spectacle. The rear was crammed with fellow officers and cavalrymen graciously occupying the standing space and several reporters with notepads and sketchbooks at the ready.

It was quite a crowd. The Guards Chapel could hold one thousand people, and surely there were as many present in the notoriously plain sanctuary. The architecture echoed the austere Doric era and, owing to its meager initial funds, contained little ornament save the flags of the regiments and the windows of the clearstory, which, in memory of fallen guards, had been improved with intricate armature and delicate panes of stained glass. To make up for the want of visual grandeur, the pew ends and alter dripped with same flowers and foliage Wilhelmina would carry. Trumpeters were stationed in the choir, and two chaplains, dressed in their dark vestments and bright white collars, stood atop the alter steps conferring quietly with one another.

The older man, nearing eighty, white haired, bespectacled, and somewhat shrunken, was the founder of the Chapel, the Reverend Dr. William Whitfield Dakins, who had retired but would still preside over notable ceremonies in the church to which he was so attached. Through his long career, he had been also Chaplain to the Brigade of Guards and in this role had had occasion to get to know Alfred over the years. Alfred liked his learned style, his tendency to draw meaning from scared and secular literature alike rather than hammer doctrine exclusively. More than that, he admired the reverend’s way of meeting the men at their point of need and putting the welfare and care of even the toughest soldiers at the fore of his ministry.

Next to Reverend Dakins stood the current Chaplain-General of Her Majesty’s armed forces, the Reverend Mr. George Robert Gleig. He was an upright man of middle age with dark wavy hair that receded at his temples but aimed downward in sharply cut sideburns that curled beneath his ears. He had quick and penetrating eyes and an animated manner that easily grabbed and held attention. Gleig was a soldier as much or more than a clergyman, having served in the Peninsular Wars under the Duke of Wellington and in America during the bumbling attempt to regain that underestimated backwater of radicals. His prolific and popular written accounts of his experiences, along with his continued close friendship with Wellington made him a something of a personality, but his enthusiasm as a leader of the spirit and easy connection with the men of arms shown genuinely. He smiled broadly, pleased to see so many of his flock in attendance.

The hum of people arranging themselves in their seats, whispering and pointing at this and that, ceased as the chapel bells tolled the hour in a glorious melody followed by eleven resounding bongs. Trumpets picked up the call as the chaplains stepped forward to address the congregation. Alfred kept calm and still, the long-practiced talent pushed to its limit as he anticipated the entrance of his bride and reflected on her singularly expansive heart. He placed his right hand into his pocket where his fingers traced the thin etched lines of the silver oval. He allowed one pang of loss, one breath of honour and thanksgiving, then returned to thoughts of his cherished Wils. Who else would keep dear Drummond too? What living person would allow him to be anything, to give everything, to fill his heart and his bed? Not another soul in a hundred million. The breadth of love left him amazed, and for this day, he cared not if all the world could see.

Wilhelmina was just out of view in the narthex standing with Lord Hatton. Taking the full measure of her, he said in a fatherly tone, “My child, you seem transformed from yesterday. Worry beset me when I saw what nerves had taken hold of you, but now … Now, you are positively radiant. This man,” he gestured to the sanctuary then fanned his arm to indicate the space broadly, “This life, suits you?”

“Yes Uncle,” replied Wilhelmina with affection, then added with an edge of indignation, “I believe any life might suit me so long as I am granted myself. And Alfred … Oh Uncle I cannot explain it!” Visibly she struggled to articulate the sentiment conveyed clearly in her eyes. “Alfred is a man apart, and we are bound by a most inimitable love.” She caught his eye and smiled warmly, taking his arm. 

“Ah yes,” he replied warmly, “Twas Rousseau that said it. ‘Freedom is the power to choose our own chains.’ Be happy my child. This life is a short one.” He kissed her cheek and wobbled a bit, turning toward the sanctuary door.

“I am ready Sir,” she said. 

“Right,” he replied, and the took their places at the back of the procession now forming behind the aisle. 

A gaggle of children were shushed and ushered into a double line in front of them, the page boys in royal blue livery evocative of the eighteenth century and the flower girls in crisp white dresses with matching royal blue sashes and wreaths of baby’s breath in their hair, each carrying a rose pomander. Trumpets sounded a heraldic call before settling into Clarke’s Trumpet Voluntary. Wilhelmina took a deep breath and watched as the procession began. 

The Marquess and Marchioness of Angelsey led off with perfect pomp, he in his dress uniform and tiny she, looking majestically antique in an exquisite ice blue gown. In proud nostalgia for her own era, she would not give up the puffed sleeves, columnar skirt, and empire waist, from the back of which extended a train of turquoise and silver brocade. Her hair, in her usual style of high knots and dainty curls, was bound by a small tiara studded with five teardrops of turquoise and intricate ropes of silver cut to shine like diamonds. Unabashedly, she paused before taking her seat to give her sons a wave and to look Alfred in the eye as she grinned, eyes welling with happy tears that whatever silent heartbreak had torn him apart might now be made whole. The Marquess too was proud and pleased even as he nudged her to their seats.

Next was Lady Coke escorted by Wilhelmina’s brother Edmund. His suit was of no particular interest, but the mother of the bride had taken on the part and broken, somewhat, with her usual dour appearance. Her gown was a rich taupe and slate stripe with a subtle sheen. It had a high round neck to which she had pinned a large oval brooch of etched silver rimmed in pearls and long sleeves with fabric gathered into flounces and slate lace at the elbows. The same fabric came over the shoulders in dense gathers making a vee that met at the fitted waist and otherwise hid the form of the bodice. Her hair was smoothed into a low chignon into which was tucked a silver comb that matched the brooch and lace of the same slate color. She proceeded down the aisle with her shoulders back and her face an expression of formal remove, though she was careful to observe whose eyes were on her. Reaching the front, she took a seat next to the Duchess of Buccleuch who looked prim in a dusky lilac frock trimmed in indigo and her usual cameo tiara and excessive fluffs of lace. Their places should have been changed, but the Duchess would never have permitted the impropriety nor the fodder for gossip beyond what she had abetted already. She was pleased enough to see her work done and done well.

Now Edie led the procession of attendants. She carried a smaller version of Wilhelmina’s bouquet and walked with a natural grace that deftly hid her nerves at presenting herself to so many people. Behind her, the double line of children staggered in cheerful disarray. Of them, Princess Victoria and Prince Albert headed the troop. The little girl studiously distributed flower petals along the aisle, her sharp eyes watching her brother lest he run off with the white satin pillow bearing the ring. To her surprise and that of their parents, Bertie invoked a regal posture, and with head high presented the ring to Septimus then stepped back and saluted him and Alfred. Muffled giggles filled the chapel, but the two officers kept straight faces, returning the salute and glancing at their queen. The children took seats with their parents and were followed by the other young attendants, Mary’s Arthur and William’s Susannah, Harriet’s youngest two, a couple of Edmund’s redheads and three more golden blond Pagets. Edie took her place at the foot of the alter steps as the processional music concluded.

There were a few seconds of quiet as the children settled and members of the crowd leaned in, breath held, eager for the moment of their anticipation. A flourish of trumpets broke the silence. Wilhelmina and Lord Hatton stepped into the doorway. The organ struck the first notes of Handel’s Arrival of the Queen of Sheba, and their measured, temporal, reveling steps began.

Wilhelmina looked around just briefly, documenting the scene in her mind so that she might recall it in years to come. The high ceilings, the stark stone columns with their vivid flags, so many uniforms and bonnets, the creamy rose petals scattered on the bare stone floor, the shining instruments of the trumpeters, the chaplains in their black, and Alfred, waiting for her, noticing the unexpected little blue flowers and smiling. Halfway down the aisle they locked eyes, and the chapel full of onlookers fell away. They existed for a moment on a separate plane where what is real and what is known need not be shared, where love need not be defined for the understanding of the multitudes, where they kept hallowed the treasured secret that bound them more than the vows they would take. Looks of warm and deep affection ran between them as the music crescendoed to its conclusion, and they returned to their roles as bride and groom, suppressing giggles at the apparent simplicity.

The wedding ceremony now began in earnest. There were prayers, declarations, and a hymn, and then Reverend Gleig stepped forward to entreat the congregation to incline their ears to a message on behalf of the Lord. No one would ever know why he chose to preach the Trinity. Perhaps, he wished to make the most of the assembled crowd to reinforce the basic doctrine, or perhaps it had come to him in a dream, or perhaps it was just his particular view of marriage. Whatever the reason, he spoke with passion, raising and hushing his voice and gesturing demonstratively. The congregation paid rapt attention. Midway through his sermon, the wind outside the chapel could be heard soughing, and Reverend Gleig raised his voice to climb above it. At the sermon’s climax, he took a silver chalice and slowly tipped it until three drops of wine fell into a clear crystal bowl. “Three single drops of blood combine to form one drop, greater than each alone, but now inseparable. So it is with the Trinity. So it is with marriage,” his voice boomed above the rushing wind, “souls are joined to become one in an eternal bond. Now let us join these souls here today.”

As suddenly as the wind had whipped up, it stopped. The chapel became quiet. Faint sunlight began to filter through the windows, tentatively warming and brightening the sanctuary. Reverend Gleig asked Lord Hatton to fulfill his part, and Wilhelmina took her place across from Alfred. The chaplain spread his hands wide to encompass the couple in front of him. “Alfred Henry and Elizabeth Wilhelmina,” he began, “I now invite you to join hands and make your vows, in the presence of God and his people.”

Alfred took Wilhelmina’s right hand in his. He looked at her directly and with earnest seriousness, repeated “I, Alfred Henry, take thee, Elizabeth Wilhelmina, to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.” Having said the words, he relaxed into a satisfied smile and gave her a stealthy wink. As he did, the strength of the warm sunlight in the windows began to steadily increase. 

Now taking her turn, Wilhelmina drew her shoulders up slightly and with glimmering eyes repeated “I, Elizabeth Wilhelmina, take thee, Alfred Henry, to my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, to cherish and to obey, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth.”

Taking the ring from Septimus, the chaplain blessed it and handed it to Alfred. He placed it on her finger saying “Wilhelmina, with this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow: In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.” 

Reverend Gleig joined their right hands together and continued, “For as much as Alfred and Wilhelmina have consented together in holy wedlock, and have witnessed the same before God and this company, and thereto have given and pledged their troth either to other, and have declared the same by giving and receiving of a ring, and by joining of hands; I pronounce that they be man and wife together, in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.” 

As he made the pronouncement, the golden shafts of light, now impossibly bright, streamed through every window. The high noonday angle caused the shimmering beams to fall through the stained glass of the magnificent clearstory panels, bathing the walls, the floor, the stone columns, and even the heads of the congregation in an ethereal spectrum as though the chapel had been placed inside a glorious kaleidoscope. A feeling of benevolence and peace filled the chapel. Wilhelmina recognised it, and joyous tears flowed down her cheeks. At the sight, Alfred too felt the telltale sting in the corners of his eyes. He looked up into the distance then smiled at her in marvelous wonder. She returned the expression, and tilted her head, releasing her held breath and squeezing his hand again. 

The chaplain held out his arms as if to receive the light, though in truth, so amazed was he that he had lost his place in the service. A soft murmur rose from the congregation whose awestruck members looked around to find the dazzling colour everywhere and stared at the newlyweds while they dabbed their own eyes. After a moment, Reverend Dakins stepped forward and surveyed the bewildered, weeping crowd. He nodded to them and to Alfred and Wilhelmina, then, raising his hand, he ad libbed a benediction not precisely by the book. “God of life and beginning,” he said in a wise, resounding voice, “Truly we are blessed. Grant that we may keep the love you have bestowed upon us here today and multiply it by our love for one another. Bless and keep the souls of this union and of this assembled company all of our living days until in glory we arrive at life eternal. Amen.”

The chaplain lowered his hand, and the organist began to play Beethoven’s Ode to Joy, hesitantly at first, unsure if the service was over, then finding no interruption, with gusto. The trumpets joined in, and from somewhere, the sharp staccato of a corps of drums. There was a brief shuffling in the back of the chapel, as several officers made a curious and swift exit. Alfred turned toward it, and realising the recessional had begun, took Wilhelmina’s arm. Septimus clapped him on the back as Edie handed Wilhelmina her bouquet. They stepped forward, then stopped to allow the crowd a memory before walking gracefully through the confetti of light. The eyes of the congregation followed them until they could no longer be seen. 

Once in the narthex, Alfred whisked Wilhelmina to a hidden alcove where he kissed her tenderly, tasting the salt of their mingled tears. Neither one could find words for what had happened, so they did not speak, communicating through sight and touch alone. Beyond them, they could hear the parade of little children, giggling and screeching at their release from best behaviour, then the thousands of footsteps of the assembled masses exiting the chapel. When the last stragglers had departed, Wilhelmina took out her handkerchief and dried her eyes and Alfred’s too. They exchanged laughter at themselves, releasing the pent-up tension of such a momentous hour. She inclined her head toward the door, and he stepped aside, indicating with his hand that she should pass. When they neared the large exterior doors, he took her arm again and nodded his happy readiness to face the crowd again. She leaned in for another quick, chaste kiss, then turned toward the bright spring sunshine.

It took a squinty moment to adjust to the brilliance, but once the world resolved, they could see the sky was a limitless blue and the air clear, as though it had never met a fog nor gloomy cloud. Trees were full of blossoms, and the lawns a rich emerald green. Wedding guests had lined the court of the chapel and spilled out into the street. More spectators filled the edges of the roads in St. James Park. To each side of the church steps stood a row of officers at attention – not the men assigned to the chapel but Alfred’s own subordinates and compatriots and Septimus who took the temporary honour of commanding them. He gave the signal, and the officers raised their sabres high. At the same moment, the bells of the chapel peeled. The audience exploded into applause and whistles. Alfred beamed at his men and at his wife as he led her under the arch to the waiting carriage trimmed in ivies, flowers, and fern. He helped her up into it, and someone handed him his hat and a parasol. They waved to the crowd and were off to make a tour of the park, the long way around to Buckingham Palace for their wedding breakfast.

The slow ride, by no means private, still gave them precious time without company. Between waves and acknowledgements to the people lining their route, they finally eased into speaking. Alfred was first to break the silence. He took Wilhelmina’s left hand kissed her rings. “Wils, my darling … my wife,” he drew out the word, regarding her with half an expectation that he should see a change. There was none, but, to his surprise, it meant something to have said the word aloud. “We’ve done it,” he said, eyes sparkling with affection.

“Yes, Husband,” she chirped the appellation in delight, “I believe we have.” She giggled softly then paused in reflection. He had broken the silence, but it was hers to venture to that yet unspoken place of wonder. He had taken the moment to engage again with the spectators, but she caught his eye. “And I believe there can be no doubt now,” she said in low, heartfelt tone, her eyes asking for his confirmation. 

“You believe it was Drummond and not just a remarkable turn of meteorological fortune?” he asked, not so much as an earnest question but as a suggestion of the alternative one might invoke. 

“You don’t?” she rejoined incredulously, pursing her lips and raising her eyebrows. In answer, he merely threw a sly smile and a playful wink and returned to waving at the crowd.

****************************************************

The wedding breakfast whirled by, though there was scarcely any breakfasting for Wilhelmina and Alfred. Instead, they stationed themselves in the prescribed corner of the ballroom and dutifully received their many guests – Victoria and Albert and the members of the court, Wellington, Harriet, Prime Minister Lord Russell and members of the cabinet, peers, officers, all of their wives, and not least dear family and friends – each offering their well wishes, congratulations, and compliments. Recollections of the ceremony’s seemingly miraculous spectacle floated on an endless stream of chatter, becoming legend before the afternoon was over. If it was remarked once, it was a hundred times, how their marriage must truly be blessed by God. While not conceding entirely, Wilhelmina and Alfred graciously acknowledged the conventional wisdom, answering each observation with “Indeed, something like that,” or “One never knows when it comes to English weather,” or “Yes, we shall try to live up to it.”

Even cynical Emma Portman was impressed. She came through the queue with a sharply raised eyebrow. “Good show Lord Alfred,” she said, “I want whatever divine in _you_ have.”

“Lady Portman,” he replied with a cool laugh, “I can assure you, I have no credit to extend, and you may not have my wife.” She glanced at Wilhelmina who was occupied in conversation with Lord Hatton.

He shook his head, saying, “That was the most fortuitous coincidence of climate I have ever witnessed. Almost enough to turn an old skeptic back to religion.”

Addressing him, Lady Morgaine rejoined, “Be not too hasty, Meurgerys. Twas blessing surely but not the work of any Christian god.” She then turned to Wilhelmina and Alfred, grasping their arms in each of her hands and saying, “There is more between you than meets the eye.” In swift continuous motion, she squeezed and released their arms, clasped her own hands together, then squeezed her husband’s shoulder as she added, “Love is a kind of magic, you know. May you be so blessed as to keep it as long as we have.” 

“Oh Aunt, your insight is a thing to cherish,” replied Wilhelmina. “And our hearty thanks to you both. It means so much to have you here.”

“We should not have missed it for the world,” said Lady Morgaine, then to her husband, “Meurgerys, come! We impede the queue.”

Lord Hatton looked directly at Wilhelmina and said, “You see what I told you child. You choose your chains.” Then he laid a kiss on his wife’s cheek and stepped away to allow the impatient groups behind him their audience. 

So the conversations and visitations went on and on until Victoria observed the growing weariness on the faces of her friends. Guests waiting to speak with them stepped aside to make way as she approached. “Lord Alfred, Wilhelmina, our fondest wishes to you both and congratulations on a most glorious and memorable ceremony. Now, I must take my leave to attend to some matters with Albert before the dance tonight. I expect to see you no later than half past eight, and well rested,” she said in a tone as conspiratorial as it was commanding.

Wilhelmina blushed as she curtsied and Alfred bowed, saying, “With bells Ma’am.” 

After the queen departed, watchful guests took the cue and began to gather their things. Adelaide grabbed Septimus, and the two worked together to usher the closer friends and family into a rough formation outside the doors to the court where the decorated carriage stood by. She then swept back into the party and made a bee line for Alfred and Wilhelmina. “Pardon me,” she said off handedly to Lord Palmerston, interrupting his congratulations and taking Alfred by the hand. “I am afraid the carriage is waiting, Dear Brother. It is time for you and your bride to be off!” she said with urgent seriousness.

“Dearest Sister, might you reconsider an introduction to Her Majesty’s Foreign Secretary?” he asked, indicating Palmerston with his eyes. Adelaide flushed and bit her lip. Alfred continued, “Secretary Lord Palmerston, my sister, the indominable Lady Adelaide Cadogan.”

Palmerston showed not a ruffle in his temper. If anything, he seemed intrigued. Adelaide squared her shoulders to the man and extended her hand. “I beg your pardon Sir,” she said.

He took her outstretched hand and kissed it. “Charmed to make your acquaintance,” he said. Appraising her sincerity and the worth of her cause, he added “Perhaps, Ma’am, I can help you in your mission. Far be it from me to stand in the way of wedded bliss. It shall be my pleasure to take care of these stragglers.” He stepped back in the direction of the lingering guests. “Lord Alfred, Lady Paget,” he commanded their exit with a sweeping gesture of his arm. Alfred and Wilhelmina gratefully took the opportunity to escape. They hurried to the carriage through the cheers of the impromptu send off, waving and shouting their goodbyes.

***********************************

Well past teatime, Wilhelmina woke with the snug feeling of Alfred’s muscular arm beneath her, the warmth of his body against her bear back, and the touch of his gentle fingers gliding across her shoulder and down her arm. She could feel the balmy rays of evening sun dancing with the fluttering blossoms and nascent leaves as they angled through the panes of the window. Without opening her eyes, she reached behind her to twine her fingers in Alfred’s hair. Doing so, she bent his head toward her and he began caressing her shoulder with soft kisses. “Are you waking, my darling?” he whispered into her ear.

“Must I?” she returned, clutching his arm more tightly as he attempted to wriggle out from under her.

He gave in, and without freeing his arm, propped himself on his side. He continued tracing her body with his other hand, studying the patterns of the golden light sparkling on her porcelain skin then following them across the bed and around the room. He had not seen it since the day they first arrived at the house, and now it was transformed into a haven of ivory, cream, and gold. The walls had all been painted the cream colour with a slight sheen to the finish, the mouldings a deeper ivory. Diaphanous bed curtains had replaced the heavy dark ones and swooped to where they were tied to the bed posts in flounces like the sleeves a woman’s dress. More substantial gold chintz drapes, matching the bed cover, hung at the windows, tied back with carved alabaster roses. A large Persian carpet with an intricate radial medallion covered the floor everywhere but near the fire, and the ceiling had been painted at the edges with a pattern of gold and ivory roses. The furniture was all dark wood, the chaise and chairs upholstered in the same color scheme. A lavishly framed mirror hung above a chest of drawers flanked by sconce lamps with concave, fringy shades. It was a beautiful room, and it pleased him, but not nearly so much as occupying it with his wife.

It should not have made a difference, her becoming his wife. It went against all of their private beliefs about society’s rules and classifications. Yet, it mattered somehow. Wilhelmina must have felt it too, for they had never moved together in ways so uninhibited nor relaxed so completely afterward. He wished they could stay in that dreamy state as long as they liked, but they were obliged to venture out, and he was starving besides. He kissed her shoulder again, this time with a speed and force that indicated his intention to at last remove himself, and she rolled onto her back with open eyes to watch him go. He slipped out of bed and lazily wrapped a soft carthen around his lower half then made his way to the adjacent drawing room where a small feast had been stationed. Passing the ornate mirror, he raised an eyebrow at his reflection, noting the red marks on his upper arms where her feet had been.

He returned with a tray full of good things to eat, coupes of champagne, and strong tea for good measure. Wilhelmina sat up against the pillows, wrapping her shoulders in one of the fine white linen sheets that had come loose. Alfred sat opposite, placing the tray between them. He picked up a sweet stuffed date and placed it in her mouth. At the taste, she realised her own hunger, and they both ate heartily from the bedroom picnic. As the golden afternoon faded to gentle orange then dusky violet, they spoke easily of the wedding guests, laughing at the way the behaviours of certain characters and personalities conformed so well to prediction, and of happenings in the larger world, which seemed more tangible now that the intensity of the wedding had passed. No urge to revisit extraordinary happenings – tumultuous or blessed – invaded their serenity, as they had already reached an understanding beyond words. Such understanding, in turn, deepened their appreciation for one another and reinforced the sense of gratitude foundational to their union. It permeated their shared demeanor, intensifying as it reflected like opposing mirrors infinitely between them.

Having satiated every last human desire, they sat quietly for a moment. Alfred slid the remains of their picnic to the far side of the bed and brought himself to sit behind his bride, taking her in his arms. They gazed out the window at the stars appearing in the twilight sky. “Must we put an end to this perfection?” asked Wilhelmina rhetorically but with a tinge of vain hope. 

“That we must,” replied Alfred wistfully. “But not for a moment more.” He moved his hands in slow circles, as if memorising her body before it was again ensconced. “Darling, do you know how proud I am to call you my wife?” he asked with a tone of genuine admiration. 

Wilhelmina smiled. “Oh Alfred, you flatter me” she demurred, turning around to look him in the eye. “I do believe it is the general consensus that I’ve received the better bargain.”

“Darling, you overestimate my reputation,” he laughed as he reached for his breeches and began to dress. “At worst, we are considered a match of mutual defectiveness. And about whom can that not be said?”

She considered the question as she too got up and found her undergarments. She motioned for Alfred to assist, and he did not fail despite the time elapsed since he last practiced those particular skills. Skipping the obvious and irritating example of Victoria and Albert, she finally replied, “I suppose one cannot read ten pages of any periodical without exposure to some illustration of those spotless couples for whom piety is sustenance and chastity a sport.”

“Fair enough, but anyone we know?” he replied, fastening his coat and smoothing his hair in the mirror. “Those spotless couples, as you call them, if they exist at all, are invariably convicted of boredom, a sin of its own kind that serves to relegate one to only the most bland and stifling occasions.” Wilhelmina giggled, amazed as always at Alfred’s ability to put the mores of society into glib perspective. With her eyes, she asked him to continue. “The trick, Darling, is to live by one’s integrity and keep one’s wits so as to avoid becoming the object of uncontrolled scandal while never relinquishing one’s capacity to defy expectations.” she struck an expression of mock seriousness and pantomimed taking down notes of his spontaneous lecture. With her hands thus occupied, he took advantage of her defenselessness and reached in to tickle her until she sank on the chaise beside herself. “It helps too to invest in one’s friends,” he continued, “which is why we must be going. Now, if you would take pity on your defective husband and ring for Alice, I haven’t the slightest idea how to rearrange your hair.”

Wilhelmina stepped into her slippers and headed for the glass. Seeing the state of her hair, she promptly pulled the bell. “Oh, this may take some minutes to sort out,” she said. “Go on down and pour yourself a drink. I shall see if Alice can simplify.” She gathered up her discarded combs, assessing the fading flowers. Alfred joined her with a gentle stroke across her back took the combs from her hands. Without a word, he gently untwined the forget-me-nots before handing them back to her. She nodded a soft smile and sent him out of the room with a wave of her hand.

Alfred descended the stairs gazing at the blue flowers and partaking of the unexpected moment of solitary reflection. He strode into the library and helped himself to a whiskey, lingering with it before taking the tiny key from his pocket and opening the ebony box. In it, he replaced the silver locket and took out the folded card with Wilhelmina’s verse. He read it to himself again then pressed the small blue flowers inside. The feelings of amazement and wonder returned. He shook his head as he placed the card back in the box and locked it, running his hand over the top. As he put the key in its hidden drawer, he thought for a moment whether the portrait behind him might really be some sort of conduit to worlds beyond. So what if it was not? He turned to it and gazing at the handsome youthful face, he raised his glass and whispered, “Always.”

**********************************

Alfred and Wilhelmina arrived at the Palace dance not a moment before their eight-thirty deadline. Before they were announced, he caught her pausing to summon a dutiful demeanor. He eyed her in admonition. “Wils Darling,” he said, “We have no duties tonight but to be present and credit to spare with our compatriots. Let’s enjoy ourselves.” He took her arm and she relaxed in agreement.

“Lord Alfred and Lady Wilhelmina Paget,” called the chamberlain. They entered the ballroom, bowed and curtsied to Victoria and Albert, and set out to find their fellows. They met their family obligations first, spending a few tedious minutes with the Cokes, during which Wilhelmina’s mother scowled incredulously at her changed hair but otherwise kept herself to pleasantries. Wilhelmina thought she might extend a compliment at how well the wedding ceremony went off, or at least how well it was received, but she was disappointed if not surprised. Alfred’s parents did not fail to produce the expected contrast, seeming quite pleased that another of their issue had joined the ranks of happy matrimony. The Marchioness recalled the many wedding ceremonies in which she had processed and hinted that their just might be the most memorable. The dancing began, and Alfred gave the first, an old-fashioned minuet, to her before each of his brothers took a turn. Wilhelmina did not mind. His care for his mother was endearing, and she was pleased enough to converse with the Marquess and learn of the progress at Plas Newydd since the storm. While they spoke, her Aunt Buccleuch joined them, offering her congratulations to the Marquess and the kind words to Wilhelmina her mother had omitted.

When Alfred returned, he led Wilhelmina out to dance a formal turn, and the Duchess stayed behind with the Marquess. “Tell me Duchess,” he said, indicating with a sweep of his hand the sea of young people, “The world is now theirs. Do you believe we leave it in capable hands? We saw such hardships in our day,” he paused for them both to reflect before continuing, “We have fought and laboured tirelessly to secure peace for them.” He paused again, shaking his head. “I tried my bloody damndest, but I could never protect mine as much as I wanted.”

“You need not fear the lessons such protections would rob. Yours have mettle few can match.” replied the Duchess, nodding toward Alfred and Wilhelmina specifically. “It is the ones taught to be too fond of protection and too trusting of their own righteousness that ought to worry you. I suppose it is only natural that we should not wish them to bear what we endured, but I am afraid, our generation shielded them from insecurity in excess of moral prudence. A great many of them were brought up to desire control in place of courage.”

“Would that you were wrong Duchess,” sighed the Marquess turning his gaze back to the graceful twirling couples. Even after thirty years, he missed dancing with his wife.

As the night of reveling wore on, Alfred and Wilhelmina grew weary of socializing. Seizing a rare unoccupied moment, he casually took her arm, squeezing it and jerking his head toward the great hallway. Once there, he led her quietly to a hidden door that opened to a narrow stairway leading to a secret gallery above the dais. From that vantage point they could enjoy the comings and goings of their friends and family without taking part. 

The dancing continued with a lively Polka that brought Victoria and Albert out to the center of the ballroom. Among the other dancers, Alfred’s sister Emily and her husband John made a graceful pair alongside Adelaide and Fred who struggled in a vain effort to lead her with extra delicacy. There too was Wilhelmina’s old friend Florence wearing a highly decorated white gown and looking quiet recovered as she danced with one partner then another. If she held on to any sorrow, she did not show it, but her face seemed more determined than carefree. Watching her every move from the corner of the room was her mother, the Marchioness of Lothian, standing with Wilhelmina’s own and whispering intently. Wilhelmina felt sorry for Florence and wistful that the two of them could never again be close. She hoped her friend would find alliance with a man who might show her love.

Beyond the periphery of the dancing, other groups and couples lingered around the walls and occupied the tables at the far end of the enormous room. They spied Harriet surrounded by a group of fawning men, the lot of whom she seemed more than capable of directing while giving none such attention that he be encouraged. Among them was Wilhelmina’s brother Charles whose wife was nowhere to be seen. Emma Portman was huddled together with Sophie Monmouth and the two of them were watching Lord Palmerston most intently as he made his way around the room. Generally, the revelers basked in the merry atmosphere, delighted to be again among society for the Season. But standing alone against the wall, one knee bent with his foot upon it, was the figure of a handsome, raven-haired, man with deeply set, brooding dark eyes. “Look, Alfred,” pointed Wilhelmina, “There’s Lord Fitz, looking for all the world like Heathcliff. I hope Lady Charlotte has not been too nasty to him.”

“I’m sure she has given him no more than he wanted,” replied Alfred drily. Wilhelmina gave him a puzzled look, but he did not elaborate and returned to happily studying the room. A clump of junior Household Cavalry officers loitered near a door. They were there at Alfred’s invitation but appeared as though they could not quite consider themselves off duty. Alfred looked for Septimus among them, but he was not there. Scanning the room, he found his brother sitting at one of the tables with the daughter of the Earl of Sainsbury. He tugged at Wilhelmina’s arm and pointed to the scandalously improper scene.

“Who is that woman?” Wilhelmina asked.

“That is Lady Margaret Sainsbury,” answered Alfred in a wry tone conveying the idea that nothing but trouble could come of her presence.

Lady Margaret and Septimus were sitting far too close, at times leaning toward each other until their foreheads were only inches apart and the shoulders of her flouncy pale rose gown drooped dangerously low. Discarded coupes littered the table. Apparently, Septimus had decided they were no more than a delicate impediment, as he had commandeered a bottle of champagne that he grasped by the neck in his right hand, while he had propped the bandaged left quite obviously on the table. Playing into his supposed handicap, Lady Margaret took the liberty of feeding him generous bites of cake.

“Wils Darling, I am afraid this can be little but a course for ruination,” said Alfred, leaning away from the railing while drumming his thumb and fingers on it. He thought a moment then turned to her with a glint in his eye. “How would you like to help me with a little covert mission?” he asked.

“With pleasure,” she answered hesitantly, unsure to what she was agreeing. “What do you have in mind?”

“I shall explain it all to you another time,” he answered vaguely, and she could see his thoughts were still in motion. “For now, just follow my instructions. We are going to make lifelong friends of the Earl of Sainsbury and save at least three people from themselves.” He let go of the railing with a firm tap, became very upright, and smiled broadly.

Wilhelmina giggled at the intrigue. Alfred looked at her askance, and she forced herself to attention. “Now, on my signal,” he began, “go to Lord Fitz, engage him in conversation, then tell him I would be most obliged if he would kindly ask for the honour of a dance with Lady Margaret. Tell him I shall repay my debt with due haste.” She nodded, more puzzled but ready for the next instruction. “When you have finished with Lord Fitz, find your way to Mama without drawing particular attention. Stop and speak with people on the way, but mind your time. When you reach her, tell her Septimus seems to be suffering quite pathetically from his injury and perhaps should take to his bed. She will know what to do. Keep Papa company until I arrive.”

“I will do as you say,” responded Wilhelmina, as she headed for the stairs, “though I shall be eager for your explanation.”

“When time is on our side, my darling,” he said, opening the door and motioning to her to go through. They walked together back into the ballroom. Alfred reassessed the positions of his targets, then turned to Wilhelmina and laid a kiss on her cheek with a whispered “Now.”

While Wilhelmina went about her part, Alfred joined the group of officers, accepting their hearty and suggestive congratulations and a proffered drink. He enjoyed their company for a few minutes then said, “Gentlemen, there are ladies whose dance cards go unfilled. I dare say, you squander your advantage. Go,” he motioned to the room, “Have a good time.” As the officers began to disperse, Alfred pulled one of them, a dashing blond with chiseled features and flashing blue eyes, aside. “Captain Ashby, may I have a word?” he asked. Ashby nodded. “If you would be so good as to help me with a small matter of concern … Do you see that couple dancing over there?” Without drawing attention, Alfred gestured to the dance floor and Ashby’s glance followed. “That is Lord Malory Fitzpatrick and Lady Margaret Sainsbury. Her father is a good man to have on one’s side, and she is bound to give him angina. It would please him tremendously if she could be occupied with honorable gentlemen for the remainder of the evening. If you would, when this dance is through, kindly relieve Lord Fitz. I am quite certain you will be pleased to make the acquaintance,” he said with a wink.

Ashby glanced back at the lithe aristocrat leading the woozy pink confection. He flashed a bashful smile, saying, “At your service, Major.”

At the change in the music, Alfred set off to find Wilhelmina and his father. Along the way, he acquired two drinks, and passing Lord Sainsbury, handed him one and exchanged a few veiled yet pointed pleasantries. By the time he arrived at his destination, the Marchioness was also approaching with Septimus on her arm, saying as she rolled her eyes to everyone but him, “Septimus Dear, twas a lovely dance, but I am afraid you’ve tired me out. Would you be so kind as to take me home?”

“I know what you are up to Mama,” retorted Septimus, a bit too loudly. “And it is not necessary. I shall behave myself.” He made a show of straightening himself up, then looking at Alfred with narrowed bleary eyes, he said, “I’d wager I know who put you up to it too.”

Alfred returned his glare then clapped him on the shoulder with enough extra force to knock him off his balance and send him staggering to a nearby chair. “You’ll thank me tomorrow,” he laughed, “I just saved your life.”

The musicians struck a Waltz, and Alfred bowed to Wilhelmina and offered her his hand. She took it and they glided to the middle of the room. “Well, that was fun,” he said, smiling, the glint still in his eye.

“Alfred,” she replied, “I haven’t the faintest idea what just happened.” She looked with him a resigned smile that did not ask again for explanation.

“I promise,” he said, “I shall explain everything.” He looked her in the eye to seal the promise, but his expression made it clear he would not reveal himself tonight and intended to change the subject. “Perhaps on Friday,” he added mysteriously. “We shall have a long ride alone to fill with any discussion you like.” Now she looked at him with utter bewilderment. “If you would do me the honour of accompanying me,” he said, shifting to formal tone while bringing excitement to his eyes and drawing her a bit closer. “I would like to take you to see your wedding present.” 

Her carefree smile returned as she decided to let go her craving for definitude and simply trust him. In turn, he thrilled at the prospect of caring for her in ways she had never known. He beamed with fond affection and the endearing earnestness that always took her a bit by surprise, and it was enough to wash away any residual frustration at his deliberate opacity. It was enough, in fact, to discard every emotion but love. She radiated it back to him as she leaned into the dance, spoiling it not with further conversation. The embrace of graceful motion and perfect synchronicity swept them both back to the place where they existed, apart from society, in their own kind of love – quirky, complicated, and imperfect but compassionate, courageous, honest, and equal. Theirs, for as long as they lived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! I have been writing furiously, and it feels like something of a milestone to have gotten our beloved heroes over the matrimonial finish line. Thank you so much for coming along! There is so much more to this story. If you want to know when it drops, consider subscribing. It may take a bit longer than usual to get Chapter 10 out. I need to regroup on plot and timeline (we are not even into Series 3, much less the decades to come, so we are going to need to skip through time at some point), and I have another project that needs some attention too. In the meantime, much appreciation to all of you dear readers! And for anyone who checked out the playlist to the first chapter, a little wedding gift for you – the next installment is listed after the notes.  
> 
> 
> Floriography:
> 
> Across the board, the colors of Wilhelmina’s flowers are significant in that they do not include actual white, the representative color of purity, chastity, virginity, and innocence. Red and pink, the romantic colors, are also missing. Yellow generally signifies friendship, and green vitality and fertility. Blue can represent desire, intimacy, and love but more often in the metaphysical context of striving for the infinite, unreachable, and unattainable. The specific flower symbols are as follows:
> 
> * Magnolia – nobility, love of nature  
> * Ivory Rose – grace and charm  
> * Calla (when not white) – beauty, sexual desire  
> * Tulip – love and rebirth (generally), also charity (Victorian specifically), commitment (cream), beautiful eyes (variegated)  
> * Pieris (Andromeda) – happiness through the ages  
> * Forget-me-not – as the name suggests, it is the flower of remembrance, particularly for lost love  
> * Ivy – fidelity, strong attachment, fertility and eternal life  
> * Fern – Sincerity, enchantment  
> 
> 
> Historical Notes:
> 
> The Royal Military Chapel, St. James Park at the Wellington Barracks, usually called the Guards Chapel, was established in 1839 as the religious home of the Household Division. It was indeed patterned after a Greek temple as was still the dominant architectural style at the time. Funds were tight, so it had very little decoration and was often described as ugly. Over time, memorial donations funded some embellishments, though not the specific windows in our story. Those are imagined, as they were a narrative necessity. The chapel was extensively renovated in the 1870s and became highly ornate in the Lombardo Byzantine style; however, it was bombed in the Blitz in the 1940s, and all that survived was the apse, which is still intact today. The chapel was rebuilt after the war in a modern style that in a way harkens back to its austere beginnings. 
> 
> Reverend Dr. William Whitfield Dakins was Presenter at Westminster Abbey and Chaplain to the Brigade of Guards. He convinced the powers that be of the need for a place of worship for the men at the Wellington Barracks. He was in fact a very learned and literary-minded man and had a reputation for caring deeply for the soldiers, but my characterization is still somewhat fictional.
> 
> Reverend Mr. George Robert Gleig succeeded Dakins as Chaplain to the Guards. He had been a soldier and served as described. He was also a prolific author, largely writing popular accounts of his military exploits for magazines like Blackwood’s. He did maintain a close friendship with Wellington. As above, my characterization is embellished.
> 
> The wedding ceremony comes straight out of the 1662 Anglican Book of Common Prayer, which as far as I can tell, was still in use at the time. It killed me to type the “obey” line, and I thought about employing artistic license but ultimately decided our Wilhelmina would not have chosen to fight that battle. (And while we are on period attitudes about women … Hang in there Lady Margaret! In 150 years you will be granted your right to make that mistake as many times as you like, but for the purposes of our story, you are a wicked, wicked little tart.)
> 
> Meurgerys is Cornish for sweetheart, in case the reference to Morgaine le Fey was not already obvious.
> 
> Heathcliff is the main character of Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights (another Victorian ghost story) and one of the classic Byronic heroes. I suppose Wilhelmina got an early copy of this one too, as it was not actually published until December of 1847.
> 
>   
> ****************************************  
> 
> 
> Chapter 2-9 GenX Fangirl Slightly Less Angsty Modern Playlist 
> 
> LIFE  
> 16\. I Am Mine – Pearl Jam  
> 17\. The Two Sides of Monsieur Valentine – Spoon  
> 18\. Fighter Girl – Mason Jennings  
> 19\. When You’re Smiling And Astride Me – Father John Misty  
> 20\. Migration of Souls – M. Ward  
> 21\. Marigolds – Kishi Bashi  
> 22\. The Harrowed and The Haunted – The Decemberists  
> 23\. The Ghost of You Lingers – Spoon  
> 24\. Little Talks – Of Monsters and Men  
> 25\. Love in Mine – Big Thief


	10. Freedom and Chains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred and Wilhelmina take a honeymoon of sorts and along the way exchange a little perspective that perhaps pays off in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Freedom is the power to choose our own chains.” ~ Jean Jacques Rousseau
> 
>   
> … and sometimes it’s just all about the power.  
> .  
> .

Friday morning at the port saw the grand intersection of humanity in what was perhaps the busiest square mile in all the world. Stalled drivers calmed nervous horses while hurried businessmen dodged newsboys, vendors, and lackadaisical travellers. Sailors fresh from leave waved goodbye to their tawdry port companions, who in turn directed their attentions to those streaming from the newly docked ships. Dock workers hauled cargo in ceaseless streams. Amid the bustle, Alfred stared out at the sparkling currents of the Thames, aware that not a person there had spare thought for the occasions bringing such interlopers as himself to become obstacles in the flow of traffic. He took comfort from Wilhelmina’s firm grasp on his arm. A gentle breeze fluttered the ruffles of her bonnet and the signal flags of the ships and sent steam and smoke drifting westward through the clear sky. They were dressed for travelling, though not from here and not just yet. Their own trip would mark a beginning, but this stop marked an end. The bittersweet pangs of parting filled the moment with unspoken emotion as Septimus, looking quite proper in his regular uniform, set down his bags and embraced Alfred with a forceful thump on the back. There was no way to know when and if they would see each other again, and it was impossible not to linger in goodbye. Septimus pulled back and took Wilhelmina’s hands, kissing them and saying with a jerk of his head toward Alfred, “My fondest congratulations again, Dear Sister. Take care of this loon, won’t you?” Wilhelmina affirmed his sentiment with a nod and a smile, looking to Alfred to speak next. 

Alfred took a breath and put on a smile of his own. He looked his brother in the eye. “And you stay out of trouble,” he said, his tone of facetious admonishment pointing to one kind of trouble while his eyes clearly meant another. Septimus filled his face with mischievousness and picked up his bags again. A horn blew, and he turned his head toward his ship then looked back once more at Alfred and Wilhelmina. They smiled lovingly and put up waving hands to signal the final farewell. It would be their send-off rather than his leaving. He nodded back, holding his gaze for another second, then turned and strode toward the ship with a discipline his family rarely saw. For all his devil-may-care manner, he too was bound by duties beyond himself. Alfred and Wilhelmina watched until they could no longer see him then walked silently along the pier, boxing up their worries and sorrows so their attention might be on the happy journey they had planned.

“It is time we should be going too,” Alfred said after a few minutes. 

“Pray tell, to where?” asked Wilhelmina, summoning a bright cheerfulness.

“Do you remember I rode out to Suffolk a week ago?” he asked. She nodded, hardly believing a week had gone by. No sooner than their wedding day was over, Alfred was wholly occupied with the opening of the House of Lords, and Wilhelmina had scarcely seen him except for the moments she graced his arm at court. The following day had been a last reunion of Angelseys before everyone went their separate ways, and now it seemed they finally might have a few days honeymoon, though the plan remained unknown to her beyond the suggestion of what to bring. “Well, Darling, to Suffolk, I shall return with my charming bride.” They had reached their carriage, and he stood aside so she could enter. Then, he climbed in beside her, looking quite content.

“Alfred, will you not tell me more? I do not find myself eager for mysteries,” she said pleadingly.

“I do not wish to spoil the surprise,” he countered, “and it would not do justice to explain ahead of seeing it. I will tell you this – I hope to procure your happiness.”

“Then, I suppose I shall have to suffer the discontent of frustration until my happiness comes into view,” she said with an exaggerated tone of resignation. With a direct look, she turned to the other puzzle on her mind, “If you refuse to reveal yourself on that matter, perhaps now would be the right time to illuminate for me in what business we were engaged at the Palace Saturday last. I have been quite patient.”

“You have been, my darling, and I am in your debt.” He took her hands and kissed them, then meeting her eyes, said in an authoritative tone, “You see, there is more to it than you may believe.” He meant his words to prepare her. Though he could think of no one with a more open heart or mind, he was acutely aware she would be out of her depth. She was a bright woman. If she had not solved the puzzle in a week’s time, then she remained ensconced in the darkness of her upbringing. And if she truly wished to know, he was going to make her work for it.

“There must be,” she said. “So much intrigue when you could have gone to remove Septimus yourself.”

“Septimus was not my only concern,” he said. “Do you remember what I said to you when I asked for your help?”

“Yes, you said we would save three people from themselves. I must assume you meant Septimus, Lady Margaret, and Lord Fitz. Septimus, I understand, but how does an introduction between Lady Margaret and Lord Fitz help either of them?” she asked.

“Wils Darling,” he said, levelling a frank gaze. “Do you honestly believe Fitz suffers in a perpetual state of hopeless love for Charlotte Pomeroy?”

“I suppose so,” she answered. “It is not a well-kept secret. Everyone has known it for years.”

“Have they?” asked Alfred rhetorically. “What sort of idiot pines in vain for so long? And Lady Charlotte. You believe she refuses to marry over her fortune?” Wilhelmina nodded tentatively, now sensing her answer was likely incorrect. Alfred continued. “An awfully high price for a lonely life. Now, when was the last time you saw her without Lavinia Davenport at her heals?”

“Oh, they are always together,” she answered eagerly. “Lady Charlotte took her in when that awful cousin of hers disinherited her. They are the dearest of friends.”

“Quite the term of art,” said Alfred in a leading, slightly facetious tone. Her face became contemplative, though it was clear she had not yet come upon the answer. He tried a different tack. “Let me ask you this. When you discovered Drummond and me …” he paused to read her reaction. Since the wedding, Drummond was happily no longer a source of tension. They were able to speak of him freely and with fond affection. Now, he hoped the memory of the man would help to enlighten her. She seemed surprised and even more bewildered that he should change direction so abruptly. He persisted, “When we were revealed to you, did you think we were alone in our habits?”

“Of course not, but …” she began as though making an excuse but trailed off as she was not sure which idea she meant to justify. Alfred caught her eye and with his willed her not to force him into a condescending exposition of detail. Wilhelmina took a breath to refocus her scattered thoughts. What meaning was she to take from all his oblique questions? Slowly, she pieced together his implications, and as understanding dawned, her eyes grew wide. 

Seeing the change in her expression, he gave her a warm smile, saying, “But it is all a good ruse, is it not?”

“So, every time Lady Charlotte humiliates him…” she trailed off again, struggling to form the question.

“People see what they wish to believe,” he answered.

“Yes, I am quite sure they do,” she said in a tone of self-reflection. “I did not believe it were possible to feel more foolish on the subject, but alas.” She shook her head then regained her expression of puzzled curiosity. “But, Alfred,” she said as though raising a new question, “Lord Fitz seemed genuinely miserable, and I still do not understand how an introduction to an overeager debutante could possibly help.”

“Darling, after the spectacle of our wedding, is it hard to imagine why Fitz might be touched by melancholy?” A look of sympathy crossed Wilhelmina’s face. Alfred continued, “The introduction was not to Lady Margaret.” He paused for her to add the information to her calculus, but her expression begged him for quarter from the lesson. He decided to be gentle and continued, “There is a captain, one of my reports, who I dare say should get on quite well with Fitz. If you observed, I sent the captain in to relieve him. It was imperative I speak with my men in any case, and the occasion afforded the opportunity. As for Lady Margaret, I imagine she will find her way to trouble, but it will not be at the Palace. Her father is a powerful man in the House and was quite relieved to learn I had made amends for my brother’s indiscretion by engaging the honour of my friends.” 

She was nodding along and appeared pleased to finally have all the pieces of the puzzle. “And I supposed Lord Sainsbury is thus blinded by the relief of his concern and none the wiser to your real purpose?” she asked.

“Right you are,” he answered, “though my purpose includes the entirety of the scheme. It pleases me to have a friend in Sainsbury, and what is more, I do not wish to have his daughter for a sister-in-law.”

“Alfred, you amaze me!” she exclaimed. “However did you learn to be so cunning?” 

“Necessity and pleasure make good taskmasters,” he replied. 

“So, do you think Lord Fitz and your officer got on?” she asked.

“Are you aware of what Fitz has planned for after the Season?” he asked in return.

“I am. He has taken a villa near Monte Carlo for the latter part of the summer. An invitation to visit arrived yesterday. I had not had the chance to bring it up to you,” she said, wondering again where he was going.

“Precisely. And the captain about whom you inquired, put in for leave to travel the month of August. What do you suppose?” he asked. In answer, she smiled her genuine gladness for their friends. “We shall decline, of course,” he added.

“Are you sure?” she asked. “It sounds like a beautiful diversion, and it is not as though either of us are at risk of shock.”

He gave her a purposefully incredulous look. There was still so much she did not see, and one illuminating conversation could never replace years of experience. He answered, “In the first place, I do not wish to bring him any notoriety. In the second, you could read all of Mama’s books twice, and still you would not be prepared for that sort of house party.”

“Oh,” she said blushing. “Am I to understand there is a whole clandestine world operating just outside of view?”

“Outside of view, right under your nose,” he said. “People have all kinds of proclivities. One has only to know how to look.” She responded with an open expression that begged him to go on. “I could not possibly teach you,” he answered. “I can only instruct you to broaden your perception … Darling, tell me, have you never once been taken by an unspeakable appetite?”

“I suppose it never occurred to me,” she replied. “If ever I fancied forbidden fruit, it came to me as a sort of envy, a wish to be someone more beautiful or beguiling or fortunate, with power to see to one’s own fate.” 

“Hmm,” responded Alfred, finding such a perspective somewhat foreign. So centred was he on her education, he missed the chance to explore what she meant and persisted with his line of thought, of which he had become delightfully interested. With a glint in his eye, he continued, “I dare say, you should try it. Next time we are at some large occasion, let’s play a game. We shall each find three people we fancy, and no more than two may be of the same sort.”

The idea struck Wilhelmina as both intriguing and alarming. She liked the thought of defying propriety, of inclusion in her husband’s secret world, and she was eager for whatever needs he had beyond her to be met. On this concern she was not naïve. She had never expected marriage would alter his desires. Yet, the prospect of his proposal felt dangerous. She made her tone as light and flippant as she could, saying, “Shall we descend into adultery so soon?”

The forward question and its indication of misunderstanding briefly took Alfred by surprise. His wish was to play, not to act outside of faith. After all, he remained wounded and sought not to put himself at risk by straying beyond the protective walls he had built. To clarify himself, he matched her glib tone and answered with faux admonishment, “Wils Darling, one can admire a painting without the urge to take it from the wall. I have enough to occupy myself.” Then, to reinforce his point, he brought himself close and kissed her lavishly, wondering for the first time if his assumption of her desire for fidelity could be incorrect. She returned his kisses, and realising the discussion had played out, added the open questions to her growing list of those to be answered in time. Alfred sensed her lingering tension but wished not to address it further. Instead, he bent her head to his shoulder and stroked it soothingly. After a while, she relaxed and fell asleep.

Midday became afternoon, a stop for tea, then evening. A chilly rain began to drizzle. Light within the carriage became dim, making difficult the reading in which Alfred and Wilhelmina were engaged to pass the time. He had two or three papers spread out, and she was far away in the middle of Thackeray’s Vanity Fair. Something in one of the columns called Alfred’s attention to matters of finance, and he remembered news he had to share. “I meant to tell you,” he said quite offhandedly, interrupting her pursuit of a chapter’s end. “I managed to meet with my solicitor about your dowry. He should have it transferred within the week.” He thought she would be pleased to have the matter settled and did not suspect the topic might engender rage. 

The matter of the dowry had smouldered in the back of Wilhelmina’s mind since her brother had brought it to her attention. Now, something in Alfred’s casual treatment of it touched a nerve, and hot anger shot through her. She sat upright, and loudly shut the book. She narrowed her eyes and simmered at the surprised look on Alfred’s face. “So now it is yours then?” she snapped.

“Not mine, ours,” he replied warmly. He was not concerned with technicalities and perfectly pleased to pretend as though it were not a fiction. His words did not appease her, so he reached over to take her hand. “What has you so upset, my darling?”

Wilhelmina recoiled. “How do you fail to understand?” she asked crossly. “That sum should have been mine. Mine alone. What might I have done with even a small fortune?” Burning tears filled her eyes.

Alfred wished to comfort her, but he perceived comfort was the last thing she wanted. He sat back and returned his hands to his paper, folding it away as he considered her question and its suggestion she might have had choices beyond marriage. Of all the times she had raised doubt, her concern always centred on him, never her own inclination. Perhaps she would not have married him. After all, it was he who decided he could not be without her. An unusual feeling welled within him, a sort of uncertainty over how to proceed. Cautiously, he asked, “You would have liked to have known of it before we were engaged?”

“I would have liked to have had some measure of independence,” she answered, stifling the hot tears and taking a defiant tone. She met his eyes and saw in them a vulnerability she did not expect. Her patience for it was thin, but she wished to make him understand not to wander into pointless hurt. Without resentment, she said, “I do not mean to disregard the sentiments between us, but they do little to address the grievous condition that in the eyes of the law I am no more than your property.”

“Then a gentleman was never so indebted,” he said, trying desperately to force humour and affection to smooth the edges of her of her anger. “Besides, what do I care for the law when I have no intention of enforcing it? Spend the sum however you like. You know I desire only your happiness.”

Wilhelmina felt a frustrated urge to scream, but instead she took a quiet breath and said in a level tone, “Therein lies precisely the problem. Despite all that nature has bestowed in equal measure, _my_ happiness depends on the benevolence of _your_ desire.”

“Do you distrust my constancy?” he asked as though the problem were a personal one.

She would not play into his defences. She looked at him directly, and letting go of her controlled tone, said with exasperation, “Of course not. Alfred, trust is beside the point. There would be no need of it were it not for the wretched dependency! Do you think Brutus raised the dagger against Julius Caesar over a lack of personal trust?” She did not let him answer the question, barely taking a breath before she charged, “Oh, for all of your worldly knowledge! How are you blind to the predicaments of women, to the precariousness of one’s position, to the lack of agency to direct more than the style of one’s hair? It matters not that I have your permission but that I must have it!” She had become passionate, speaking both to him and beyond him with raw emotion. 

Her questions struck him like an axe breaking through a window he did not know was boarded up. His was always a realm of private negotiation, apart from whatever errant notions ruled the masses. That marriage should be different, or that she should view it differently, had not entered his consciousness. He had believed it was enough to offer her freedom within their marriage, never appreciating the stark reality of it remaining his to grant or withdraw. He was about to admit as much, but she missed the cue and continued in a strident voice, “Even now, you withhold from me where we are going and what we are doing, as though I should be delighted by the ignorance. I suspect it is a thing of some magnitude, and you say it is for my happiness, but not once did you ask if I was inclined to a surprise!”

He caught her eye and waited to be sure she was finished then said with wary warmth, “If the delight of a surprise be for my benefit, I can very well do without it. I shall tell you if that is what you wish, though now I suspect I may have blundered.” 

“Yes,” she answered. “Tell me of this thing that endeavours to command my happiness.”

“Very well,” he hesitated, as one might before cutting the fuse to a bomb, “A country house outside of Long Melford called Wynnefield Hall came to my attention. By misfortunate circumstance, it may be just the place…”

“A country house! Alfred!” she interrupted, becoming animated again. “You have chosen a house without so much as a conversation? Perhaps you think I should not care. Up to now, I have been content to allow you and everyone else to dictate my direction. It pleased me to please you, and I cared not to be difficult on matters of passing importance, but this. Alfred, this belongs to our future. Am I not to be included in such a decision?”

“Wils Darling,” he said, maintaining a calm and cautious tone, as he rubbed his temple, “The intention was not to exclude you. Please understand, I only wished to give you something that might approach the value of what you have given me. As I say, I very well may have missed the mark.” 

In his plaintive expression, she could see he was sincere, that his error came from misunderstanding more than arrogance. She knew that feeling too well not to empathize. She dismissed her fury, softened her expression, and with a shake of her head asked, “Alfred, has it ever occurred to you, perhaps you do not know what is best for everyone?”

He took the question as a rhetorical and her change in demeanour as an opportunity to make peace. He reached out his hand and she accepted it. “I am sorry to have been thoughtless in acting on your behalf. May I ask for your forgiveness?” he asked.

“You may ask,” she said, but keen not to relinquish the upper hand, added “but I shall wait to grant it until I have seen the source of the offence.”

“I dare say I find myself on my back foot,” he responded. “Will you permit me to advocate for its merits?” She nodded and inclined her head to listen. He put on his courtly manner as he said, “In the first place, it is in a rather wild condition – primordial, as you would have it – but it has good bones and the hedges have been kept such that it is quite private. One could say it becomes a woman and her husband intent on the invention of life apart from prescription.” He paused to gauge her reaction. She gave little, attempting to display only a cool receptiveness. Nonetheless, her eyes flashed an interest not lost on Alfred. Encouraged, he smiled as he ventured, “And as long as my assumptions are on trial, I shall add another. I thought perhaps you would like to remake the gardens. It was in imagining your happiness doing so that I came to want the place.”

Wilhelmina could not help but feel touched by his earnest wish for happiness. It was his most reliable charm. Yet, she owed it to herself to maintain her footing, to insist that her opinion counted for something. She returned his smile and squeezed his hand before asking, “What will happen if you do not receive a happy verdict?”

“We shall abandon the prospect,” he assured, returning the squeeze. “I have pledged no more than contingent intent. The decision is entirely yours.”

“For that, you have my thanks,” she said. “Very well. I promise to consider the place in good faith.” She patted his hand and held on to it as a sign the conflict was behind them, and they slipped into silence with the last glow of daylight below the horizon. Night fell into a country sort of blackness with no moon or stars to offer variation. There was only the gentle touch of hands bolstering the brokered peace and the pittering of rain and squelching hooves for music. The moment stretched to an hour before the faint glow of candlelight in the windows of Long Melford signalled their destination.

They stayed the night in a cosy inn where the wife of the proprietor fussed over them, making much of their status as newlyweds and her own honour at hosting the illustrious couple from the splendid wedding she had read about in the London paper. They indulged her. It seemed the kind thing to do. The next morning, they set out for Wynnefield. The rain had stopped, and along the ancient Roman road, morning fog hung about the ground beneath the orchards with their cherry trees in full bloom and apples just coming into flower, and it drifted across the meadows where puffy sheep idly munched the shrouded clover. Wilhelmina leaned her bonnet out the window to take in the sights, feeling a hint of enthusiasm now that she and Alfred had reached an understanding.

Turning into the drive, Alfred was pleased to see his instructions had been carried out. The worst of the overgrowth had been removed and the gate repaired and freshly painted. He reached over to take Wilhelmina’s hand but declined to pull her away from the window. As they passed through the tunnel of yew, she squeezed his hand in anticipation. Finally, the red brick manor appeared, its East-facing façade warmed by the morning sun. Though its need of repair was still quite obvious, the windows had been cleared and the pediment above the main entrance refinished. It was suitably impressive, and he hoped she would like it enough to overcome her irritation at his having chosen it without her. He could not see her reaction, nor did she voice one, so he sat on edge as he gave her time to take it in.

Wilhelmina stared in awe. The idea they would take on an estate so soon was still quite fresh, and now here it stood. She could see where it had been neglected as well as where new measures had been taken to make it presentable. The look of it was rather starkly Georgian but nothing proper gardens could not enhance. She recalled what Alfred had said about giving her a place to make into anything she wanted, and she vowed to herself to examine it in that light. It would not be fair, even to herself, to reject the possibility of something wonderful for the sake of standing on principle, particularly when there was no more to gain. Yet, she was not ready to give him her wholehearted commitment. 

The carriage pulled into the gravel court where the agent was waiting with Beale, Harrison, and Alice who had gone ahead to make ready a welcome. Alfred exited first and helped Wilhelmina out, keeping an eye on her face as she continued to look up at the house. She appeared thoughtful, though not displeased, which boosted his suspended hopes. She turned to him, knowing she must say something, and ventured with a hearty smile, “It certainly has potential. Won’t you take me around and show me what inspired you so?” He obliged, nodding to Beale as he took her arm to lead her through the main door. There was a narrow antechamber outfitted with a plain mirror and a console and a wide arched doorway opening to a light-filled entry hall with an open staircase filling the left side and wrapping upward to a wide landing before it doubled back to the second and third stories. The centre of the hall opened through another arch to a second hall spanning three sections of the rear of the house with a set of French doors on axis with the entry arch. Where there should have been a chandelier, there hung a great wreath of willow branches woven with cherry blossoms, ranunculus, sweet peas, and sprays of other local wildflowers. Wilhelmina smiled despite herself. She would never convince Alfred his efforts were excessive, and she was beginning to think he revelled in the chance to outdo himself. For his part, the smile was all he was after.

The agent took them through the house – room after room of garishly painted walls scarred by the removal of ornate mouldings, some without doors, three upstairs without interior walls where some renovation had been abandoned. The tour ended in the South wing, which constituted the earliest structure, dating from the sixteenth century. The original Tudor details remained, dark half timbers and pitched ceilings, dense wood panelling and latticed windows. What had been the great hall was converted to a vast library, though the shelves were bare, the books all having been repossessed. The only remaining furniture was a massive oak table, clearly more trouble to move than it was worth. Wilhelmina looked around the room and up into the high ceiling. The history of the place certainly stirred the imagination. Alfred came up beside her, saying “Shall we see the best part?” She nodded, and he pointed the way back through the hall at the back of the house. There, the French doors opened to a wide limestone terrace with two sets of descending stairs and a stone balustrade between them. She leaned against it and peered out. Alfred followed and gently placed his arm around her waist. The servants closed the doors behind them, leaving them alone. 

Together they gazed below at the shell of a pleasure garden evocative of the memory of some non-existent villa on the Grand Tour. Its central feature was a long rectangular reflecting pool with plain, elegantly carved limestone coping. The shallow water glistened where it caught the sun and glowed green where blooms of algae had begun to overtake it. Centred on the western end of the pool, stood a folly of a Greek temple with round stone columns and a wide dental-moulded pediment. The rear remained unfinished – whether by misfortune or design it was unclear – lending the appearance of a ruin and the function more of a pavilion than any sort of building. Thick vines covered the columns on the left-hand corners and scrambled furiously across the pediment. Behind the folly, a dense copse of oak, ash, alder, and beech, each in their stage of awakening, gave the impression of a shimmering forest where the land fell away then rose again, not drastically, but in a rather hilly condition for Suffolk. It filled the view to the North, well beyond the house, to where it joined a dark windbreak of Scotch pine and yew. Clipped hedges of yew, overrun with the same aggressive vines, spanned the length of the pool on either side, aligned with the folly and the stairs such that they walled in the pleasure garden. Between the pool and the hedges, what must have been a wide verge of clipped lawn, now grown out and weedy, gave way to a deep border of ambiguous composition full of herbaceous plants just coming out of their winter sleep. 

To the North of the folly and the hedges, standing out from the copse was an ancient lime tree, perhaps older than the oldest part of the house and at least as tall. Its broad branches rose and fluted gracefully from its thick trunk, reaching ever so slightly toward the southern sun, and forming a massive dome of pale green nascent foliage. Once noticed, the tree, for its magnificence, easily won out over anything else in the landscape, a vivid reminder of that which predates and outlasts any man or his era. It might have imposed a standoffish admonition of insignificance had it not retained the gentle, hospitable quality of a constant invitation. Wilhelmina was instantly drawn to it, and without a word, descended the stairs. Alfred followed, heartened to see her interest, keen not to rush her thinking. The stairs emptied into a wide crushed gravel path that afforded access around the yew hedge and ran its length then continued to the North side of the folly. The great tree stood apart at a distance of maybe twenty yards through a scrubby field. Wilhelmina did not hesitate to venture forth, leaving the path and picking her way through the field even as the hem of her skirts caught on the prickly little shrubs. 

When she reached the point where the canopy made dappled shadow on the ground, she turned around to see Alfred taking measured steps, hanging back so she might lead the expedition. She beckoned him to join her, and he quickened his pace. Running her hand along the mossy ridges and furrows of grey bark, she said “I imagine this tree could have been planted by one of the knights of King Arthur.”

“If you would have it so, my darling,” he answered affectionately, placing his hand on top of hers. She leaned into him for a fraction of a moment as though perhaps she would give him a clue to her thoughts, but just as quickly, she spun away, lighting on a worn stone jutting out from the ground at the North edge of the canopy. She hurried to it and could see it was part of an abandoned foundation. “What do you suppose was here?” she asked, but before he could speak, she answered herself. “Perhaps the knight built a cottage so he could stay and watch over his tree.”

“As Arthurian knights are wont to do,” responded Alfred in a mix of soft indulgence and facetious ribbing. Wilhelmina gave him a wry smirk before catching the longing in his eyes. She was stalling, giving herself fair time to consider the enormous proposition, delaying recognition of what she knew to be true.

“Let’s explore that ruin,” she said, pointing at the folly with one hand and extending the other for him to take. They walked arm in arm up the steps and into the odd stone structure. Besides the one crumbling partial wall, it appeared to be sound and offered a superb view of the pleasure garden and the rear of the house. Wilhelmina walked around the perimeter, pondering to herself, beginning to feel inspired as she thought of what she would do if she took the place on, how she might restore this or change that. Alfred had placed the decision in her hands, and the time had come to make it. In her heart she knew he was right. The prospect of reviving an old and once grand estate suited her perfectly. It was only the belated agency she rejected, and there was certainly a distinction between an indifferently imposed gift and one chosen with her dearest interests in mind. Having made her decision, she looked around for Alfred. He had taken a seat on the front steps and stared out at the reflection of the high wispy clouds drifting in the pool while sipping from his dainty pewter and crystal flask. She cocked her head and smiled knowing she would make him happy with her answer, and that despite her indignant reservations, she truly would be happy too.

She sat down next to him and laced her arm through his. He offered her the flask, but she declined. He looked at her with the same longing patience, the little furrow in his brow threatening to emerge. She answered him with a warm, affirmative look of her own. “It could be our very own Temple of Apollo,” she said.

His expression brightened, but his demeanour still held a cautious reserve. He did not wish for her to merely acquiesce. “You are quite sure you will be happy?” he asked in his earnest, gentle baritone. “I must know that you do not agree for my sake.”

“I am quite sure,” she answered solemnly, then, with a playful jab of her finger into his shoulder, added, “To my great irritation, it seems your presumption does not preclude your being correct.”

He broke into a wide smile and the excitement he had held the day before returned. He stood up, pulling her to her feet, spinning her around, and kissing her as he had hoped to all morning. Then he pointed to a place in the centre of the South hedge where the yews opened to another derelict garden with the remnants of crisscrossing gravel paths overgrown by effusive flowering shrubs. “See that spot over there,” he said. “That is where I pictured you making a most splendid flower garden. Every bloom and blossom your heart desires.”

“Very well. Let’s see it!” she exclaimed. With the decision made, she could drop her reserve and embrace the enthusiasm of the moment. She moved to leave, but he pulled her back.

“Wait,” he said as he stroked her cheek and gave her one more deep kiss to seal their accord. In it, she felt the purity of his intention, and in his eyes, she saw a wish fulfilled. Because she cared for him, she was moved to protect his ego, and so, it was time to let him regain the upper hand. She smiled warmly and drew up her shoulders, a gesture of hinted submission she knew made even thoughtful men relax. Then, she held out her hand so that he might lead her. He took it, and without further worry, hurried toward the clipped doorway in the yews. 

No sooner than they entered the new garden, they spied two men crossing it with tools slung over their shoulders. “Hallo there!” called Alfred to the men. They stopped, surprised to see the elegantly dressed couple. Alfred and Wilhelmina began walking toward them, and the older of the two stepped forward. He had a wary, wise look, as though he already knew everything about them. Nonetheless, he kept quiet, waiting for Alfred to speak first. He was a rather tall, bulky man, clearly quite strong, with a bulging belly that indicated a fondness for eating and drinking well. He wore a rough linen shirt under a loose olive drab vest with a wrinkled red neckerchief tied in a square knot, snug breeches, and tall field boots that came up over his knees. His ruddy complexion showed vividly on his clean-shaven face while his light eyes were shaded by the wide brim of his hat. Alfred approached him politely, careful not to assume too much about his station. “Good day Sir,” he said. “Major Lord Alfred Paget and my wife, Lady Paget. You are the head gardener, I presume?”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” responded the man. “Horace Greenleaf. I’m the gardener alright, but I wouldn’t know of what I’d be the head. It’s been only me and my assistant, Jules for some years now.” He gestured toward the other man, a youth really, who stepped forward and nodded at them. He was the spitting image of Mr. Greenleaf though fifteen to twenty years younger, taller and more wiry. Despite his youthful frame, he was obviously quite muscular. He wore an open shirt with the sleeves rolled up and breeches and boots like those of Greenleaf. His face was shielded only by a mop of sandy hair and a stubbly beard that looked like it had only just arrived. It was curious that Greenleaf should call him his assistant rather than his son.

“Then I suppose it is the two of you I have to thank for clearing the windows on short notice,” said Alfred.

“Our pleasure Sir,” responded Greenleaf. “I, for one, would be happy to see the place occupied again. Twas a place of pride in its time.” He cast his gaze over the land, briefly wistful, regretting his inability to do better by it.

“How long have you been retained?” asked Alfred.

“Retained?” answered Greenleaf with a laugh. “More like brought up. My father was the gardener here and his father before him. Been pulling weeds since I can remember. Never a leaf out of place by the end of the day. That was all before the trouble started.”

“Hmm,” answered Alfred with narrowed eyes and a thoughtful nod. “I dare say you must know more about it than the agent. We would be most gratified to hear the tale.”

“I beg your pardon, Sir, but I wouldn’t want to cross the agent with unauthorized revelations.”

“I assure you, we shall not be deterred,” said Alfred as he turned to Wilhelmina and exchanged a look of sweet anticipation. At first Greenleaf looked sceptical, but seeing their faces, he softened.

“Alright,” he said, lowering the spade from his shoulder and leaning on it. “The old Baron was a true nobleman. Honourable. Generous. Cared about things, he did. When he was in residence, he would come out to walk the grounds with my grandfather every day, and always he brought sweets for us children. He sent my grandfather to Holland and all over England to learn the latest techniques and even had Repton here for a time. Was a shame for so much sadness to visit such a man. So I was told, his wife bore him seven children, but they were all sickly things, and six of them died before they were old enough to go to school. The one son who survived became possessed by a sort of patriotic notion he should redeem his father and Britain itself – you see, the Baron had taken heavy losses in the Bourbon War – and joined up to fight Napoleon. He was killed at Salamanca. They say the Baroness died of a broken heart the moment she heard the news. So, the old Baron was alone into his old age. He and my grandfather died the same year.”

“What a terribly sad story,” remarked Wilhelmina. “What happened after he died?”

“The estate passed through three of his younger brothers. They all came with visions of improvements but then would meet their end before the ink was dry. Never a thing finished. The last one left it to his wife who left it to her son by her second marriage. He repurchased the title for himself and set out to make things right before he got too full of pride and indignation at being taken for the fool he was. You see, he was something of a dilettante and had no head at all for figures, so he put everything to his agent, including, so they say, his wife, while he spent his time on the Continent doin’ who knows what. After it was discovered she was with child, she and the agent ran off to Australia with a good bit of the fortunes of the estate. After that, there was no amount of money the Baron wouldn’t spend to prove himself. Problem was what income he had weren’t honest and never enough in any case, so he got to borrowin’ and got deep in. One fine Spring day, ‘bout five years ago now, the authorities came and carted him off to Woodbridge. He didn’t last two years and never repaid a guinea far as I know.”

“How awful!” exclaimed Wilhelmina. “Oh Alfred! We must endeavour to restore it. To redeem such misery seems a veritable duty.” 

“If that be your inspiration my darling, but if you would permit my contribution, I find I am of a mind to leave the past of other people where it is and aim only at our happiness.”

Greenleaf stared at them sceptically. They certainly seemed as odd as he had read. As if to confirm his thoughts, the Lady now addressed him directly, “Mr. Greenleaf, we were just giving ourselves a tour. Would you be so kind as to point out what aspects are in greatest need?”

“Certainly, Ma’am. Today, we’ve got to dig out the ha ha. With so much rain last month, we had slides. I don’t mind help with the mowin’, but sheep in the lawn won’t do if you mean to stay,” said Greenleaf. He slung the spade back over his shoulder and led off in the direction he had been going when he was discovered. Jules followed silently. Wilhelmina looked at Alfred, excitedly asking his blessing with a raise of her eyebrows. He held his arm out for her to proceed and she happily hurried to catch up with the gardeners. Alfred lagged behind, keen to watch what might unfold, making note of various needs he could see without description.

When he reached the edge of the ha ha, he could see Wilhelmina had already taken more than a passing interest. Her characteristic enthusiasm shone as she spoke with Greenleaf in animated gestures, pointing to whatever spots piqued her curiosity and waiting to receive his answers. She followed as he performed his inspections, wading into the mud without care for her fashionable boots or the hem of her dress, increasingly adorned with a trim of soaking mud. Alfred laughed to himself, finally feeling relieved, glad for the grace of the woman in whom he invested his hopes. 

After a while, Wilhelmina climbed up out of the ha ha, calling to Alfred before she reached him, “We’ve begun Alfred! Mr. Greenleaf is a fascinating fellow and gave excellent advice. By the next time we come, we shall have new grass in the verge and a potager full of good things to eat.”

“Darling, I could not be happier,” he said as he reached down to pull her up the last few steps. Together, they wandered a while longer until hunger pulled them back to the house and the carriage and a fine lunch at the inn in Melford. There they stayed another two nights, exploring the town, attending services at the old Holy Trinity Church, visiting the house by day, then staying up late making plans. They would live in London for the most part, taking rustic holidays at the house as they worked on it bit by bit. Something would have to be done with the remaining land to generate income. An entire staff would need to be brought on. Furnishing the place could take years. The joy of working together, of building upon each other’s ideas and challenging each other’s notions, brought them close in a way they had not felt before. At last, they shared something more than tragic holes to fill.

They returned to London more than content and excited to share their news. They dined at the Palace for the Feast of St. George, taking renewed congratulations from the court, though Victoria would not hand them triumph so easily. She caught Alfred’s eye and declared to the table, “Lord Alfred, I dare say you have grown up. I never would have predicted!”

“You never know Ma’am,” he replied with an impish smile that recalled their early days of friendship, “It could all be playing at kings and castles.” They laughed as though one could toss away responsibility in a phrase, and the night became a merry note in the Season, now in full swing. 

Balls, parties, receptions, the Boat Race on the Thames – the glittering occasions whirled by. Wilhelmina found them much easier to attend now that enjoyment was her only goal, and she felt sorry and sometimes angry for the shy and plain debutantes whose mothers would introduce her as an example. Now that the dreadful business was behind her, she wondered what she would make of herself. Would she be content to live her life on Alfred’s arm, making his accomplishments hers, or would she dare to pursue something all her own? Would she make reviving Wynnefield her legacy or spend endless years producing a brood of children? Given good fortune, could she have each thing in its turn? She could not possibly find answers all at once, but she knew where she would begin. The smell of the fresh Suffolk soil lingered in her imagination, and she was determined to take control of the pleasure garden before the summer’s end. By mid-May, she was eager to return and pleaded with Alfred break away from London for a week or two. He needed no convincing. So, toward the end of the month they returned amid an unusually early heat wave, making it all the better to remove from the city. 

The house felt more vast and empty without the agent hovering around. Loud conversations of a thousand birds and insects replaced the clatter of the city, as Wilhelmina woke to find Alfred already up and gone. She slipped out of bed and dressed herself, seeing the bell system had been dismantled and she had no way of knowing where Alice might be. She wandered through the rooms adjacent to the bed chamber then downstairs where, from the old library, she heard the clinking sounds of dishes. There, she found Beale arranging pastries and makeshift tea service on one end of the massive oak table. She greeted him, “Good morning Beale. Have you seen Lord Alfred?”

“I believe he is on the terrace ma’am,” answered Beale.

“May I?” she asked indicating the breakfast.

“Of course, ma’am,” he answered, stepping aside, and allowing her to serve herself. She poured a cup of tea and held it as she walked around the great room, imagining what it must have been like when Queen Elizabeth was on the throne. Then, she returned to the table, took a couple of buns, and set off to find Alfred. The morning air on the terrace was soft and cool in the shade of the house, though something about the intensity of the sun on the pool and the heavy moisture in the air indicated the day would soon grow hot again. At the sound of the door, Alfred turned his head from where he stood drinking coffee and gazing out at nothing in particular. He started toward her, but she shook her head and quickened her steps to join him. She tucked herself under his arm and handed him a bun. They ate in silence for a moment before she began to giggle. He looked at her quizzically. “Oh good heavens,” she said, “Where do we begin?”

“Where would you like, my darling?” he asked, turning the question back to her, as he had no good answer despite having contemplated the same question for more than an hour.

“Well, I suppose we should carve out some sensible places to live,” she answered, “but I was just in the library and thinking we ought to play to the history. It would be the perfect place for your mother’s Elizabethan mirror, don’t you think? I’m sure she would be pleased to see it displayed again.”

“I would not be too sure on that account,” he laughed, “I think she is pleased to see it out from under her roof.” He smiled and glanced at the old part of the house. “Not a bad idea though. I’ll wager there are some tapestries of the period and perhaps some arms and such at the Pantechnicon.”

“Brilliant!” she exclaimed, then thinking further, a sceptical look crossed her face. “Oh, but I do not wish to recreate the gallery at Plas Newydd. All that military paraphernalia and dreadful suits of armour. One can hardly think of peace. It ought to be more Arden than Agincourt.”

“As you like it,” he quipped, “but I rather fancy a fine suit of armour.” She giggled and shook her head. Finishing the last of his bun, Alfred’s thoughts returned to more practical matters. “Before we can accomplish anything, we are going to need to arrange for some decent food. I’ve been informed not a merchant in town will keep this house on account. I shall have to go in to make assurances as to our credit. Apparently, they will not be appeased by any agent.”

“Off you go then,” said Wilhelmina, feeling the need for more substantial provisions just as keenly. “I mean to check on Greenleaf today. Perhaps he has made progress with the potager.” She held out her arm toward the house to hurry him along and he responded with a peck to her cheek before they parted company to go about their separate business.

On his way into town, Alfred passed a wagon loaded with crates, trunks, and a few pieces of furniture he recognized as from Plas Newydd. He shook his head at his mother’s bottomless store of unwanted things even as he smiled at the thought of her. The driver did not recognize him and continued without stopping to the house where Beale received him. When everything had been unboxed and set out, he notified Wilhelmina who came in from the potager to have a look. 

Of all the delivered items, the most striking was an arched garden arbour, nearly ten feet tall with intricate, swirling ironwork in the French style. A card had been tucked into one of the iron spirals. She opened it and read:

_My dear Pagets,_

_Fondest congratulations on your marriage and acquisition of Wynnefield Hall. I shall be most eager to see your talents applied to bringing it out of the shadows. I should imagine too, there will be perhaps a little patch dedicated to the cultivation of roses, our standard English varieties enlivened by the more exotic species one discovers if one is a dedicated rosarian. You have my best wishes for the most pleasurable enjoyment and sure success of the project._

_Most sincerely,_  
  
_Harriet_

Wilhelmina laughed out loud at their friend’s sense of humour as she began inspecting the rest of the load. It contained paintings, a set of chairs, an armoire, and a few other items cast off by the Marchioness in the name of providing help. Among them was a curious trunk, its lid propped open, but the contents obscured by a covering of thick paper and another note resting on top. She recognized the looping, slanted script of the Marchioness:

_Wilhelmina Dear,_

_To my great delight, the winds brought me news that you have been seized by a most indelicate passion for your garden. There is perhaps no greater satisfaction than bringing forth beauty from ugliness. Oh, but what muddy business! I thought these might help. The boys grew through them so fast, they hardly saw a day’s wear. I knew I had been saving them for something._

_~ M______

The oblique reference intrigued her, and she quickly lifted the paper to find stacks of linen shirts, breeches, and other clothing sitting on top of several pair of field boots, everything sized for schoolboys. She stared at the garments curiously for a minute before she realised her mother-in-law’s intention. Quickly, she shut the lid of the trunk, as if it contained a stash of unmentionables, and directed Beale to have it taken to her dressing room straight away. 

Alone, Wilhelmina took the two notes out onto the terrace, now bright and hot along the balustrade. She looked out at the forsaken pleasure garden and reread them, contemplating the layered and intertwined connections between the acts of creation a woman might pursue and the impossibly fine lines dividing civilisation from wild nature. Questions swirled in her mind. Which objects and objectives stood as intrinsic things of beauty, only to be graciously received, and which could be wrought? Which were humbling constraints, and which would yield to will? 

She stared at the dishevelled beds and vine-covered hedges. It would take months just to tear out the overgrowth and set right the essential structure. Still, her imagination could not be restrained from envisioning the garden in the light of creative possibility. In rapid fire, she began to sort advantages and limitations, traditions to be honoured and wholly personal ideas to be explored. Inspired, she dashed inside for a sketchbook but just as quickly found the thought of idle planning too tedious for a spring day. That was a task for the quiet grey of winter. Now, she wanted to immerse herself in the action of rendering progress. She remembered the trunk of clothes, and seizing on her impulse, ran upstairs.

Quickly, Wilhelmina slipped off her frock and petticoats. In only her undergarments, she reviewed the contents of the trunk. Straight away, she tried to pull on a pair of the breeches but found they were fitted too closely for her drawers with all their gathers and lace trim. Her corset too made her hips far too wide. It had not occurred to her that she might remove them, so engrained was their supposed necessity. She sat on the chaise frustrated until she remembered she had not once seen Alfred in a pair of drawers. Feeling a peculiar surge of liberty, both defiant and delightful, she stripped to her bare skin, removing even her jewellery and the ornaments in her hair. Unceremoniously, she gathered the loose ringlets and wound them together in a tight chignon where they would be out of the way. Then she attempted the old clothes again, now finding an agreeable fit.

The dressing room retained a full-length glass, broken and spotted, and she stood in front of it as though she was unfamiliar with herself. It was the strangest sensation. Everything was reversed. The breeches fit so closely against her legs, almost as if they had no covering at all, yet her torso and her bosom were unbound and unsculpted, their silhouette only just visible under the translucent linen of the loose shirt. She rummaged through the trunk and found a waistcoat to ensure at least a degree of modesty and tied an old-style white cravat around her neck. Then she tried the boots until she found a suitable pair. She strode around the room testing their comfort, finding her movements changed from her usual experience. Clearly, the weight and restriction of undergarments and voluminous petticoats were gone, but it was not as if she merely wore her night clothes. There was not only something less but also something more, something powerful in the way her body was both closed off and fully protected from the elements yet free to be utilized in nearly any capacity. Emboldened by the new feeling, she approached the glass again, looking at the totality of her reflection and turning around to try and catch a glimpse of her back side. A thrilled smirk filled her face. If this was how men felt all the time, then much was explained.

She hurried back downstairs, stopping only to grab her wide-brimmed sun hat and gloves before taking off at a jog to find Mr. Greenleaf in the gardens. The sun was high and beating intensely on the garden, and the air was thickened with humidity. Large puffy clouds hung in the blue sky, slowly drifting from the East on currents high above that refused to condescend so much as to lend a breeze to the stillness. Her search ended quickly, as Greenleaf was working on the border between the verge and the old yew hedge on the South side of the pool removing the unruly vines that threatened to choke the ancient yews. Jules worked behind him forking the discarded foliage into a wheelbarrow and occasionally stopping to dig out a pernicious root where one of the insidious vines sprang from the soil.

Stopping at the edge of the pool, she waved and called, “Good day Greenleaf!” He looked up, squinting into the afternoon sun. “Don’t be shocked. It is only me. I’ve come attired for gardening.” With barely controlled enthusiasm, she strode to where he was working. He indeed looked shocked, though he did his part to hide it. Jules stared open-mouthed before catching himself and turning with renewed vigour to his spade. It was indeed a most peculiar sight, the lady of the house, dressed in the outdated clothes of an aristocratic boy, thinking they might be suitable for mud and thorns and insects, not less the grimy sweat sure to soak anyone on such a hot day.

“Well, M’lady,” answered Greenleaf hesitantly. “What should you like to do? Identify which of these fair flowers you see fit to preserve perhaps?” he asked with a gesture to the scramble of weeds and perennials engaged in a war to bitter death that must have been ongoing without a victor for some time.

“No, Greenleaf,” she said with her head high, trying to sound authoritative. “I wish for you to put me to work. Do not spare me any effort. I wish to learn this business from the soil up.”

Greenleaf grew more hesitant than before. Carefully, he sized her up without lingering a second too long on her form. She was not sure whether he was more concerned with her safety or the potential that she would slow his work. “Might I humbly suggest ma’am,” he said in an hospitable but firm tone, “that you begin modestly and build yourself into the unsparing effort?”

“Alright,” she conceded. “I am yours to instruct.” She stood with her feet apart and her hands clasped behind her back, allowing her eagerness to supersede any frustration at being underestimated. If she was honest with herself, he was not underestimating her at all, nor was he patronizing. She had no skills to speak of and no idea what strength might be necessary to perform the tasks of which he and Jules made easy work.

“As I was saying ma’am,” continued Greenleaf, “it would me most useful if you could identify which of these beauties you intend to keep in the harem.” He looked at her directly to gauge her reaction to his untoward analogy. He figured if she were the one showing up with the shape of her legs visible to all the world, she might not stand on propriety, and should that be the case, he could trust her. She did not flinch and kept his gaze, refusing to be scared off by vulgar language and waiting expectantly for him to go on. “So, ma’am, you may start by tying a bit of twine ‘round anything you’d like to keep. Everything else goes on the trash heap, and you mustn’t just pluck off the foliage or it will be right back tomorrow. You must dig it out.”

“And how do I do that?” she asked.

Greenleaf motioned to Jules to come over with his spade. “Demonstrate for M’lady how to dig out an intruder.” Jules sunk his spade deep in the firm soil with one swift motion then place his foot on the blade while levering the handle. A leafy plant of about eighteen inches sailed through the air and landed with a thud nearby. With one hand, he stabbed the spade in the soil again, causing it to stand upright on its own. Then he reached for the plant, shook the soil from it back into the remaining hole, and tossed it several yards into the wheelbarrow. 

Wilhelmina was impressed but not intimidated. “Thank you,” she said. “I think I have the idea. Is there a spade for me to try?” Jules shook his head but handed her his tool. The steel weighed far more than she expected and was unwieldy for a person of her stature. Still, she positioned herself in the stance Jules had demonstrated, shifted her weight to her back foot, and took a fierce stab at the soil. The blade made contact with the earth but hardly penetrated it at all, and the force she had employed shot back through the handle into her body. “Ohh!” she grimaced. 

Jules turned away politely so that she would not see him laugh, and Greenleaf shot him a look of warning before turning to her with a patient expression. “Try again,” he said, “but this time, let loose your grip and allow the weight of the spade do the work for you.” Wilhelmina set herself again and followed his instruction. This time the spade broke the soil, only a couple inches, but it was an improvement and without the painful repercussion. “Better,” said Greenleaf with a nod. She made another attempt, finding the same cut in the soil and deepening it by another few inches. She broke into a smile. How exhilarating to command the very facet of the earth! She thought to go at it again but just as quickly realised she might be a quarter of an hour on the one unproductive hole. She could not let vanity interfere with the work of Greenleaf and Jules who surely had a sum they wished to accomplish. She stepped back and looked at Greenleaf with an expression torn between her desire to continue and her desire not to disrespect them by making herself a nuisance.

Greenleaf took the cue. Despite his better judgement, he admired the pluck of the new mistress and could not refuse her. He grinned warmly, saying with a raise of his brow, “Now, I can’t have Jules lollygagging about, so if you would…” He gestured for her to return the spade, and she obliged. “Here,” he continued, fishing around in his bag, “You may find this more to your liking.” He handed her a miniaturized spade with a T-grip at the end of the handle. The wood of the grip was smooth and shiny from use and the blade worn ever so slightly more on one side. Clearly, it was a favourite implement, and the confidence of its offering was not lost on her.

“Thank you, Greenleaf,” she replied humbly, then added, “About that twine?” Greenleaf returned to his bag and produced a spool of twine and an old knife. Before he handed them to her, he cut a piece of burlap from a nearby roll and folded it into a neat rectangular cushion for her knees. She took them and set herself to the task, starting with the straightforward job of tagging peonies, irises, and foxgloves that, being in bloom, were easy to identify. She might not use them exactly here, but they were worth keeping nonetheless. Next, she combed the knotty vegetation for other worthy salvages, often asking Greenleaf to identify those she did not recognise and explain their habits. As she went, she used the little spade to dig the weeds, finding her technique improved with each effort. Soon she had a large pile waiting for the barrow and pleasantly damp patch of linen sticking to her back. 

She was feeling quite pleased with herself when Greenleaf approached and offered her a cup of week beer. “You mustn’t let your thirst get ahead of you,” he said. She was thirsty indeed and drank a large gulp. It tasted awful, and she must have made a terrible face, for Greenleaf gave her a challenging look and said, “You’ll get used to it ma’am … unless you’d prefer to bring something finer from the house.” Wilhelmina took the challenge and narrowed her eyes at him as she took another gulp. She flinched again at the bitterness but at least began to feel refreshed. She finished the cup and handed it back before returning to her digging. As Greenleaf left to resume his own task, she thought she saw a glimmer of respect in his face. 

From time to time across the afternoon, Wilhelmina looked up to see the progress they had made. Roughly a third of the border had been cleaned out, at least in small part by her own hands, and there was a sweet satisfaction in seeing the changes wrought by their efforts. Unlike the finer arts in which she usually found her accomplishment, the remaking of a patch of earth lent a sense of power she had never felt before. She was eager to keep going, to work into the night so they might complete the side, but Greenleaf urged patience as he pointed to the Eastern sky. The cheerful white clouds had turned to imposing shape shifters with slatey under sides. Behind them the sky was dark with the faint slant of rain in the distance. She cared not if she became wet or muddy, and moreover wished not to concede any weakness after having inched her way toward the men’s respect. She promised to stay until he called and end to the day’s work. Turning back toward the hedge and a particularly tangled section where briars had taken root and threatened to overwhelm a patch of delphinium, she did not notice Alfred coming out onto the terrace.

With a glass of sherry and a handful of the strawberries Wilhelmina had gathered from the potager, he walked across the smooth limestone and peered out over the pool to where he could see the group of people working near the temple. The air had become close and heavy, holding its breath as it waited to be refreshed by the storm moving in behind him, its low rumbles of thunder rolling softly in the distance. He removed his jacket and tie and flung them over the balustrade, still gazing at the gardeners, expecting to see Wilhelmina with them. At first, he did not recognise her, but after a few moments, her form became clear to him along with the incongruity of her attire. Were those his old clothes? He laughed to himself and wore a pleased smile as he took in the scene from the top of the steps. She was entirely engrossed with digging and tearing out some plant, wielding a little tool with purpose and, it seemed, a modicum of skill. If the way a person moved could indicate happiness, then surely, she had found her satisfaction. 

He sat down on the top step, took off his boots, and with bare feet, reclined on his elbow sipping his sherry and steeping in the pleasure of watching her in her element. A dreamy cavalcade of emotions filled his mind – the familiar admiration he felt every time she claimed the freedom to venture something beyond expectation, an intense happiness that she should be so delighted, and, though he would keep it to himself, a measure of gratification that he could provide it for her. There was something else too. The way she was dressed, the carefree confidence, the defiant spirit, and not least the curve of her hips – she gave off an aesthetic of masculinity, yet there could be no doubt she was every bit a woman. It was intoxicating. He would not dare cut short her pleasure, but patience could only just restrain the urgency to be with her alone.

The atmosphere seemed to suffer the same fate, sagging with humidity, waiting for release. It could not hold out. The sky flashed and a loud boom of thunder followed, interrupting Alfred’s daydream, and calling the attention of the gardeners who each looked up in his direction. Straight away, Greenleaf began packing tools and motioning to Jules to head for the garden shed. Fat raindrops began to thud here and there, making distinct ragged splashes the size of a shilling on the limestone. Alfred swallowed the last of his drink and stood up, leaving his glass on the step. Greenleaf took the little spade from Wilhelmina as he said something and made a bow to her. Promptly, she turned, waved to Alfred in a big sweeping motion, and began walking up the verge. Just then, a wind descended from the roof of the house, hitting Alfred in the back, and turning everything two shades darker. He watched as it rolled across the garden, rippling the still pool from end to end, and blowing Wilhelmina’s wide bonnet from her head. As she turned back to catch it, a streak of bright violet lightning split the sky with a deafening crack. He thought quickly. She was much closer to the shelter of temple than the house. He ran down the steps, slicing his hand through the air, directing her to go there instead. She had the same idea, and abandoning the hat, took off at a run. An impulse of gallantry sent Alfred sprinting after her, wind at his back, lightning and thunder be damned. Halfway down the verge, the clouds opened. Wilhelmina had nearly reached the temple. She scrambled up the steps and ducked inside, but not in time to escape the torrent. She removed her muddy gloves, and brushing the water from her face and clothes, stared back at Alfred, now madly dashing toward her, his right arm crooked in front of his head, his bare feet tearing through the new grass.

When he was at last under roof, he bent over a moment to catch his breath then straightened up and looked at her with an expression of relief, tinged not slightly with the pleasure of a thrill. Realising they were safe, she reached for his hand and led him further into the pavilion, laughing and saying, “You are absolutely mad.”

“More so than you out here in my old riding garb?” he answered with a warm smile, as he shook the excess water from his hair with his fingers, leaving it wildly tousled. Then he removed his shirt, wrung it out, and used it as a towel to dry what more he could. He kept his eye on her, waiting to see how she would respond.

She said nothing but stood back – no demure expression, no coy scrunch of the shoulders – to grant him an inspection. Mud streaked her forehead and cheek, and her wet clothes clung to her body, revealing its every curve. Rain dripped from the locks of hair that had broken free from her chignon and formed curls at her temples and the nape of her neck. Alfred gazed at her in full, and the bewitched attraction returned. 

Wilhelmina saw that he appraised her with a sort of hunger she had never seen before. His desire for her was sometimes playful but always so gentle and comfortable. Now, his eyes held a desire much more basic. She was no longer so naïve as not to perceive the source of the difference, and feeling thus empowered, she was keen to use it to her advantage. That she was already so far beyond the lines of propriety gave her a rush of pleasure and a sudden sense she was not above mischief. Deliberately, she drew backward, holding his gaze. Finding one of the massive columns, she leaned her back against it and placed her heel on its base with a most indelicate bend of her knee. She put her hands on her hips and levelled her gaze. Whether it was an invitation or a challenge, Alfred did not know. Intrigued, he advanced.

The rain fell straight down in a continuous curtain around the temple, its loud shushing muffling all noise but the thunder. Silently, he unwound the cravat and used it to wipe the mud from her face before tossing it aside. Then he ran his fingers down her bare neck and followed with his lips. She withheld reciprocity, hands still on her hips, breath deep and steady, enjoying the undivided attention. When she thought she had made him wait long enough, she ran both of her hands through his hair, down over his ears, pinching the lobes before gliding her fingers along his neck and the centre of his sternum, then back up to rest her palms on his bare chest. Before he could counter, she gave him a little shove. Not expecting it, he stumbled backward, recovering his footing just as he reached the next column. Now, it was his back against the smooth round stone. She strode toward him, a pleased expression on her face. She returned her palms to his chest then gripped his shoulders with her fingers and drew her body close. She ran her hands down his shoulder blades and the small of his back then tucked them under the waistband of his breeches with a firm squeeze. 

“Here?” he asked, his eager eyes flashing.

“It is the Temple of Apollo, is it not?” she answered, acting nonchalance as she held his eye but withdrew to the point she was no longer touching him.

He was now aware of her game, and it only increased his fascination. “Never mind Apollo. You have turned me into Ulysses,” he said, reaching out to pull her back.

“You want to hear the song of the siren, do you?” she asked, glancing at the discarded cravat.

“I have no intention to resist,” he answered.

She put her hands on his shoulders and pressed down. He slid his back down the column and sat on its base with his knees splayed out. She stood over him with a calculating look, as though she was deciding what to do with him, but she took a moment too long, and his ability to restrain himself gave out. He reached up and pulled her on top of him. They locked eyes, windows to souls made deeper by what they had learned of one another. This time she did not withhold her affection. The game was dropped as fervent, ravenous instincts took over and everything else faded into the sheets of cascading rain and the echoes of crashing thunder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I’d hoped to get us to Christmas 1847 by the end of the month, but Ally & Wils had other plans. I hope they were enjoyable! We will get there eventually. In the meantime, Merry Christmas, Dear Reader! See you in the new year!
> 
> Floriography:
> 
> *Ranunculus – attractiveness and charm  
> *Sweet Pea – gratitude and happiness  
> *Cherry – reminder that life is short and fleeting and should be enjoyed  
> *Lime trees are sacred in European lore. They are considered both protective and healing. With their heart-shaped leaves, they are also strongly associated with love, fidelity, and a soup of other love-related attributes.
> 
> Historical Notes:
> 
> The story of Wynnefield Hall is borrowed in liberal measure from Kentwell Hall (https://www.kentwell.co.uk/the-history). There is also a little inspiration from Vita Sackville-West and Harold Nichols at Sissinghurst (https://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/sissinghurst-castle-garden). Really, they need their own BBC show, but that is another matter. 
> 
> Apollo is the Greek and later Roman god of practically everything, including but not limited to the creative pursuits – music, poetry, art, etc. – prophecy, truth, archery, plague, healing, sun and light. While he is not specifically associated with love, his omnisexual exploits are some of the best known of myths from Ovid’s Metamorphosis.
> 
> Woodbridge was (is?) a prison in Suffolk that was used in the 19th century as a debtors' prison.


	11. If Not You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilhelmina and Alfred attend the 1847 Royal Ascot, and it’s all fun and games, until three anniversaries and a discovery make a perilous collision, and the tough-loving elders must step in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If we are to be super-duper cannon compliant, we know Alfred and Wilhelmina have child by March of 1848. That is awfully quick, even for Victorians. I wondered how they would react and how the particulars of the timing would play out. So, I asked them. I got more than I bargained for. Dear Reader, if you worried things had gotten a little too lovely, … We-e-e-e-e-e-lll…

It had been only three days since the liaison in the temple, and already Wilhelmina felt something changed within her – nothing she could describe in particular, but perhaps a faint flightiness in her stomach, an unusual irritation in her complexion, a tenderness in her bosom. She wrote to Harriet:

_My dear friend,_

_A report from the rose garden:_

_No sooner than the roots took to the soil, the roses set a splendid bloom. The bees have visited with abandon, undeterred by the rustic conditions and turbulent weather. Here, they seem to have less modesty even than our London bees. Seeing the flowers have thus fulfilled their purpose and appear – if one observes just so – to have altered their aspect, I wonder if one can determine at this stage if they should set hips?_

_Truly yours,  
Wilhelmina_

Harriet returned:

_Dearest Wilhelmina,_

_How delightful to hear of the splendour of your beds! I find there is so much to be said for a country garden with good hedgerows. On the matter of hips, given the variety of roses, one sees a great diversity in determining their production. Some bear the indications no sooner than the bees have departed while others, already swollen with the fruit, go on blooming as though they were maidens. Time is the only sure judge, though I should advise even the novice herbalist to trust in her instincts and attend to every consideration of fruitful cultivation._

_With fond affection,  
Harriet_

As her wise friend had not excluded the prospect, Wilhelmina’s instincts, spurred by the curious sensations building day by day, directed her toward greater certainty that a new soul had come into being and lodged within her. Instinctively, she sought to nurture and protect it and became unable to remove its existence from the centre of her mind for even a second. Every morsel tasted, every step ascended, every kiss enjoyed had an echo in terms of how it might affect the little creature. At once, nothing more was hers alone.

On this account, her opinions – made anything but objective by the wildly swerving feelings that sprung like primeval imps from a bibulous place beyond reason – were at the very least mixed. Foremost, it was a wonder. Creation itself! A bit of herself, a bit of Alfred, and a spark of divine love that constituted the creative force. And inside of her no less! She could hardly wrap her mind around an idea so big.

Yet, the tiny thing responsible for the big idea wielded tremendous power over her. It had already stolen a good deal of her attention and had changed her from a chargeless woman to a mother in a thought. She had only just begun to embrace her own will, and she did not wish to let it go. Now, she would be bound more surely than ever before to society’s expectations, her personality forever at risk of subservience to her role. Would _Mama_ , that ubiquitous moniker ascribed to women from fishwives to queens supersede _Wilhelmina_?

Then again, was the role not the fulfilment of the highest of purposes? Was not this feat, which she could perform, and no man could attempt, a kind of power in its own way? The part of her that spurned society’s narrow prescriptions wanted to answer no, but she could not, and soon she was back around to the wonder of it all.

From Scotland’s fateful moments, she had become accustomed to mixed feelings, and her marriage to Alfred had been a study in harmonious ambiguity. She could hear him now exclaiming that he was wholly a father and wholly whatever else he was at the same time, and she need not worry, as she could be wholly a mother… Still, while she was happy to grant him his self-conception, she was never entirely persuaded and tended to view her own aspects in terms of delicate balances and acceptable trade-offs. There was much to be gained in becoming a mother, and likely more than she imagined, but things would be lost too. She wondered how much control she would have in the choosing. 

All of this she kept to herself. She did not wish to reveal anything until the moon had been again full with no countervailing signs.

************************************

The morning of the Royal Ascot Gold Cup promised to deliver summer sun worthy of London’s best milliners. Looking into the glass of their Windsor room, Wilhelmina placed hers upon her head. It was a structured bonnet of stiff tan straw with a deep brim and a high back like a cone with the top lopped off, the front of which was adorned with plumes of ostrich dyed a brilliant lemon. Silk of the same colour crisscrossed around the cone and made full looping bows both above and beneath the brim where it framed her face and trailed in long ribbons past the shoulders of the yellow frock she had worn in France. Having replaced the old lace and flowers with a new drape of pleated silk and sleeves forming bells below the elbows, the dress was completely refreshed. The silk of the drape alternated between the pale yellow of the bodice and the brighter lemon of the ribbon and darted in a wide vee to the centre of her bosom where the lemon ribbon formed full bows in triplicate. She hoped the sunny colours and deep shadow of the bonnet would distract attention from her now noticeably inflamed complexion. She dabbed a bit of powder on the worst places, tugged the hat once more, and vowed not to think of it again.

As she exited the room, she nearly ran into Mrs. Skerrett, who with a startled look said, “Excuse me Lady Paget. I was just coming to find you.”

Wilhelmina stifled her surprise and replied, “How can I help you Skerrett?”

“Ma’am, I am going to take the chance that as a kind-hearted woman, you will keep my speaking with you in confidence.” Wilhelmina nodded, wondering what could bring the queen’s dresser to such temerity. “Is it true you and Lord Alfred have taken an estate in Suffolk?” Again, Wilhelmina nodded, this time wary of downstairs gossip. “I suppose then, you will be looking for a housekeeper.”

“Yes, Skerrett, in time I am sure we will. I must say, your approach is quite indirect. If you mean to imply a wish to change your position, you must know that we would not…” Wilhelmina stopped short as Skerrett shook her head vigorously.

“Not me ma’am. There is a woman I know who is looking to leave London.”

“Is she a housekeeper?”

“Of sorts. I could not tell you where or provide any references, but I give you my word, she runs a smart house with the greatest discretion. She keeps the books as well as any banker and her staff in line, but no one would ever know it. All that is obvious is the ease and comfort of her … of the guests of the household.”

“Skerrett, you sound as though you propose something untoward.”

“Ma’am, with respect, when circumstance is untoward, the remedy of it is quite the opposite. As I said, I have known you to be more kind-hearted than most. Please say you will consider it.”

“Very well Skerrett, if you are so moved as to approach me in this way, I will consider it. Now, I must be going. Lord Alfred will be waiting for me.”

“Thank you ma’am,” said Skerrett as she stepped aside.

Upon exiting the private apartments into the noonday sun, Wilhelmina filed the strange encounter in the back of her mind and turned her attention to the afternoon’s diversions. She found Alfred waiting on the East terrace. He had been to see Henry Poole on Savile Row, who had perfected the individual cut of jackets and trousers and applied his talent liberally to the fitted, faintly pinstriped, light grey trousers, the black morning coat, cornflower silk waistcoat, and sage stock tie, and the shining black top hat with the jauntily curving brim. “How dashing you look!” she said.

He smiled and replied, “I must do something to compete,” as his indicated her ensemble. “Now,” he continued, “Let us review the rules.” 

The game was called _If Not You_ and had only three rules. First, within the time frame of the social engagement, each player must indicate three individuals who, based on lust alone, were objects of desire. Second, all three objects must not be of one sex. Third, in the name of prudence, none of the objects could be anyone either of the players knew well.

The Wednesday races were a perfect venue for the game’s inaugural round. One of the glorious touchstones of the Season, the day unfailingly brought a melange of the oldest traditions and the latest fashions, the grandeur of sport and the pageantry of contests more subtly decided, high stakes, strong drinks, brightness and beauty alongside grit and danger – a spectator’s dream. 

All the usual courtiers were there in their colourful best – ladies topped with extravagant flowers, feathers, and ribbon to match their flouncy bells of candy plaid and embroidered floral, and every shade of shining silk peeking out from behind the dark coats of the men. With them was a royal delegation from Denmark including the scandalous Prince Frederick and his rumour-laden entourage. (Though Albert was clearly perturbed to host the twice-divorced prince, Victoria was keen to nurture good relations with the Danes, particularly with the ailments of the current king indicating an imminent succession. Besides, everyone who spent any time with Prince Frederick found him affable and genuine despite his eccentricities.) 

Knowing Wilhelmina would be timid to begin the game, Alfred led off. Handing her a drink with a peck on the cheek, he whispered “If not you…” then raised his glass in the direction of one of Prince Frederick’s courtiers, Carl Berling. Berling was tall, though not excessively so, and possessed an athletic build with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. His fair colouring and delicate rose red lips bore a softness while his deep-set light eyes retained the stormy intensity of an artist, which he was. He was standing with the former ballet dancer Louise Rasmussen (the mother of his young child) and the jovial Prince. The three seemed quite at ease with one another, and the keen observer would note a certain lack of clarity around which of them should form a couple. 

Wilhelmina giggled at Alfred’s aptitude to attach himself to the most intriguing option present. Then, to show she was game, she took the next turn, selecting one of the Danish guards who looked as though he had stepped off a Viking ship in the morning only to be shaved, buffed, and polished for duty in the afternoon. After a couple of convivial hours and at least as many drinks, Alfred, making a point to demonstrate the diversity of his taste, chose a swarthy Spaniard who was the guest of Lord Palmerston. Wilhelmina then surprised him with the selection of the Earl of Aberdeen. Though the older man’s famous curly mop was greying, he retained his fit posture and distinguished air. What Alfred did not know was his wife played to her own nostalgia, having had an eye for the Earl since approximately 1829. 

To Wilhelmina’s relief, the game was a harmless lark and great fun at that. Contrary to her expectation, sharing such shameless lust did not deter, but rather fuelled, their desire for each other. So, they spent the odd moments of the afternoon in sportive mirth, complimenting one another’s choices and laughing as they teased one another with ridiculous suggestions. By the time the feature race had been run, they were down to only the women.

“You are running out of time, Wils Darling,” said Alfred suggestively as he walked away to collect his winnings.

“And you are not?” she replied, to which he only winked and strode off. Feeling predicably provoked, Wilhelmina scanned the royal box, determined to present her choice upon his return. Most of the crowd were too familiar. As though she could have drawn the scene from memory, Fitz and Charlotte leaned over the railing in search of reasons to bet against each other in the next race, Harriet once again kept a circle of hopeful men in her thrall, and the feline Emma Portman spoke in with Sophie Monmouth from behind a lace fan. Sophie, Alfred had observed, seemed not quite up to filling the shoes of Aunt Buccleuch. Wilhelmina marvelled at how she was supremely pretty without being at all beautiful, rather like the drawings of a magazine man attempting to sell the latest corsets and stockings. But enough of their friends. She needed to find some unknown woman who she might stretch her imagination to fancy. 

She moved toward the edge of the box and into the hot summer sun. As she leaned against the railing to get a broader view, the change in light and temperature overcame her and suddenly she felt terrifically queasy. She closed her eyes and gripped the railing, taking deep breaths to quell the sensation. When she opened them, Victoria herself, in the lilac frock she wore at Easter and a bonnet festooned with violets, was standing next to her offering biscuits. “Your Majesty!” she exclaimed as she performed a proper curtsey then quickly had to shut her eyes again.

“Wilhelmina,” addressed Victoria gently, “How well I know that look. Dreadful inconvenience. Here, eat.” Wilhelmina took a biscuit from the plate and gratefully took a bite. “Have you told Lord Alfred?” asked the Queen.

Wilhelmina shook her head. “It is early days, Your Majesty,” she said.

“I see,” replied Victoria, “And I commend you. The two of you appear to be having a marvellous time. You are wise to wait a while before throwing a rock into the pond.” Wilhelmina did not know quite what to say to such advice and so took another bite of biscuit. Seeing her unsteady expression, Victoria shifted to a more commanding tone, saying, “Now, let Us not have you discovered. You must come back into the shade with me and sit until you have recovered yourself.” Wilhelmina followed Victoria to her reserved seats, where the Her Majesty expounded on the breeding of horses in great metaphorical detail. Wilhelmina listened intently and soon was feeling better. 

From the vantage point of the Queen’s seats, she had a better view of the crowd and so resumed her search. The winner of the Gold Cup, a horse called The Hero, was paraded to the Winner’s Circle joined by his team and owners, the illustrious, if also notorious, Day family. Among them was a young woman, perhaps a daughter of Old John, who stood out from the group with an air of startling self-possession. She was a raven-haired beauty with high cheek bones and huge, intelligent aquamarine eyes. Her petite frame was clothed in a stylised frock evocative of riding garb with full skirt of blue and green tattersall check and a deep green bodice made like a fitted jacket. Atop her onyx curls, at jaunty angle, sat a matching deep green riding hat embellished with peacock feathers and silk rosettes. Seemingly unconcerned with the trophy presentation, the woman threw a look of smouldering challenge up into the royal box. Wilhelmina followed it to the waiting eyes of Lord Pam, who gazed back with equal inuendo. She wondered what sort of woman would go toe to toe with such an infamous rake, and thus exploring the peculiar fascination, she knew she had her winner.

Alfred found her just in time. The champion’s party was parading off the track when he handed her a drink and offered her a hand, bowing to Her Majesty at the same time. Wilhelmina thanked him with a toast to the horse that directed his attention to her selection. Standing on her toes, she whispered “If not you…” 

“Georgeanne Day…” he responded with raised brow. “Hmm … Wils Darling, you play to win. I dare say you have unmatched taste, and I must concede and merely second your choice.” 

“Alfred, that’s cheating!” she exclaimed narrowing her eyes at him.

“Not at all. It is my game,” he rejoined with a wave of his hand that signalled he would speak no more about it. Then he looked at her affectionately and said, “Well played, Darling. Very well played.”

***************************************************

The full moon lit the way for the horses clopping up the drive to Wynnefield. So bright was it, the countryside glowed as though the sun had not set or was perhaps about to rise, as it would in mere hours on this the second shortest night of the year. Alfred gazed out the window, stroking Wilhelmina’s hair as she slept on his shoulder. She was exhausted from the continuous demands of the Season (or so he thought) and had fallen asleep shortly after their dinner stop. He was pleased enough to spend the evening in silence, pondering the significance of another year. In three days, he would enter his thirty-second, settled as a husband, a gentleman of property, and an officer of utmost influence. He was content to have his wilder days behind him. He could revisit their spirit anytime, with the enthusiastic collusion of his darling Wils, yet never leave the safety of her love nor the peaceful order of his memories. Yes, though the road had been hard, he had arrived (or so he thought) at a place of placid equilibrium.

Days of bliss followed. He rose early to inspect the property on horseback while Wilhelmina slept late. He brought her strawberries and fresh cream in bed, climbed back in when she insisted on an even exchange, and stayed until he heard the sounds of the luncheon picnic basket being dropped outside the bedchamber door. In the afternoons, he rested his back against a cushion nestled between two balusters exactly three steps down from the terrace, watching her garden in between lazy chapters of Rousseau, whose aphorism so animated his wife that it begged a deeper understanding. 

On the day of his personal anniversary, the afternoon sun, that spotlight to the theatre of horticultural industry, gave way to its languid counterpart, which at the start of summer lingers in the western sky like a welcome guest who, unhurried by other plans, decides to stay for another drink after all. As had become their custom, Alfred and Wilhelmina met on the terrace at seven o’clock where Beale served them champagne from a wrought iron cart that remained the only furniture. When he had retreated into the house, Wilhelmina raised her coupe and toasted simply, “Happy birthday.” Alfred drank and gave the wistful half smile of one celebrating the advancement of age. “I have something to tell you,” she continued.

“You’ve bought something for the house,” he guessed.

“No … it is nothing one can buy.” She inhaled and glanced downward before catching his eye and making a nervous smile. He gazed back with an open expression that rapidly changed from puzzled to speculative. She did not wait for him to hazard another guess. “In a few months,” she said brightly, “we shall have another birthday to celebrate.”

Alfred took in the news with only slight surprise that the achievement should be accomplished so soon. From the moment they were married, he and Wils had abandoned any notions of caution, and reaping the rewards thereby, had made it only a matter of time. 

He could sense momentous implications gathering at the edges of his mind, but he bade them back so he might first experience the wonder. He stepped away to look at Wilhelmina in full. He could see nothing changed about her but the growing nervousness on her face. Instinctively, he leapt forward to take her in his arms. He embraced her tightly, then with a shot of protective uncertainty, let her go. Perhaps he was not meant to squeeze. Between his mother, his sisters, and Victoria, pregnancy had always been something of a peripheral constant in his life, but suddenly, it was as if he had never witnessed it and knew nothing. He wrapped his hands around her shoulders and cautiously drew her into a kiss. 

She giggled at his uncharacteristic lack of confidence. “I think you cannot disturb it just yet,” she said.

“When do you suspect?” he asked.

“As best I can determine, we shall see the little one sometime in February.”

“So, we are at the beginning,” he said, recovering his confidence, grasping better explanations for her recent bouts of fatigue and peakedness. He stroked her shoulder delicately. “Are you feeling … indisposed?”

“At times,” she replied, “It seems quite impolite about letting me know when it wants me to eat something.” She smiled, bought her hand to her yet unthickened belly, and let out her breath as she came fully to the realisation that the news had been shared, the composition of their relationship altered, and now there were three of them.

Alfred read her sentiment and, for a lovely hour, stayed in the happy awe of a new love while taking on the delightful task of enumerating all the ways he could think of to be helpful. He did not suspect the utterly undelightful ruminations shoved to the back of his mind were plotting to turn on him. Beale brought another round, and Alfred gingerly helped his darling to take a seat on the steps, placing himself right beside her. They twined fingers and sipped drinks and sat together with nothing at all interrupt the tranquil enchantment of a summer evening…

…except the tranquillity, the enchantment, the summer, and the evening sun that now radiated just so – soft, balmy liquid gold reflecting off the water and the backs of the skimming frogs and the wings of insects flittering through the serene haze. 

Alfred froze staring at it. A minute passed, then two.

“I know where you’ve gone,” she said in a soft tone, gently bringing a had to gently rub his back.

Her words sounded far away. He did not react. It was as though his body could not move while his mind reeled faster than he could comprehend. Finally, he turned to look at her. She had never been more beautiful, yet he could not touch her. The ground supporting all that made him sure of himself had turned to sand and eroded from beneath him, leaving him to be pulled into the dark vortex of another time. He looked away before he could see her expression – so full of love and compassion – change. He could feel her embrace growing tighter, the proffered comfort in her touch, yet farther and farther into his mind he retreated, farther and farther away from her and the tiny, invisible child. He became perfectly still, his unblinking eyes fixed on the pool he did not see, as a thousand remembered images assaulted his vision.

Wilhelmina held her breath. What had she done? Alfred was clearly experiencing some sort of shock and had become entirely unresponsive. She cursed herself for her timing. How could she have failed to notice the eerily reminiscent ambience and its portent of stalking memories? She thought back through the evening as she tried to reach him with the soothing motions of her hands. He had been happy at her news. She was sure of it. But now he was lost. “Oh, Alfred,” she said with a quiet voice full of heartbreak as she buried her face in his shoulder with a gentle kiss. He did not answer. She knew not what to do. The dizzying sickness began to churn in her stomach. She tried to will it away, but it only rose until she thought she might retch. She withdrew her hand and brought it to her mouth. Still, he did not move. Reluctantly, she shifted her attention to the one who needed her more, and drawing a ragged breath, she ran inside in search of the ginger biscuits she had stashed in the drawer of a side table in the drawing room.

As she reclined on the sofa recovering her equilibrium, she closed her eyes against tears of sorrow. They were to be celebrating, but in an instant, it had all gone wrong, and Alfred had looked at her as though he did not know her. She felt frightened, but she did not blame him, for it was clear he was not in control of himself. The grief of the past, that spectre she had been a fool to think could no longer hurt them, had left its proscribed realm to lay claim to his psyche. She ached for him. 

Perhaps, she thought to herself, after some moments alone he would regain composure. Surely, she must regain hers. She sat up, dried her eyes, and took several measured breaths, then walked with purpose back to the terrace doors. She looked out to see the sun had fallen behind the wood and sent the pleasure garden into shadow. The all too familiar light was gone, but Alfred remained in the same spot, having moved only enough to rest his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. The two half-finished coupes of champagne, no longer bubbling with anticipatory effervescence, sat like weary witnesses waiting for their statements to be taken. Wilhelmina wanted to run to him and shake him to his senses, but a compelling sense that he should not be disturbed held her back. Just then, Beale entered the hall to announce their carriage was waiting to take them to dinner. “Tell him I am sorry, but we shall not be going tonight. Lord Alfred is feeling unwell,” she said.

Beale glanced through the door, and perceiving the nature of the malady, replied “Very well ma’am. Shall I round up some leftovers from luncheon?”

“I think that would be best. If you do not mind, I shall join you. There is no need for further ceremony tonight,” she answered with a sigh. She followed him to the kitchen where the company of the servants offered a needed distraction. Beale took a plate to the terrace and came back with the coupes, which he discretely emptied and placed in the wash basin. “Did he say anything?” she asked. Beale shook his head. Wilhelmina finished her meal deliberately then excused herself with kind words to Beale, Alice, and Harrison for having included her. She left the kitchen, and with unconscious forethought, stopped to retrieve a carthen from the linen cabinet before returning to the terrace.

It was now dark save the light from the gibbous moon rising over the house, which just illuminated the untouched plate of food. Silent and motionless, Alfred sat like one under a spell. She came next to him and again placed her arm around his shoulders. “I am worried for you Alfred,” she said quietly. “You must miss him more than you let on. I am sorry to have overlooked it.” He turned his head toward her with a look like he meant to object, but he could not form the words and looked down again. “Come to bed,” she continued, “You must rest before we return to London tomorrow.” He did not look up again and responded with only the slightest shake of his head, so she stood and draped the carthen around his shoulders and laid a kiss on the top of his head. “Then I shall love you patiently,” she whispered, “Take what time you need.” She kept her hands on his shoulders a moment more to emphasise the sincerity of her declaration, then slowly and quietly, she left him to his thoughts and took herself to bed.

When Alfred heard the click of the door behind her, he buried his head in his knees and wept. Had she seen him, she would have misjudged the reason. He could only just perceive it himself, and the appalling thought loomed like a hard-faced judge delivering a guilty verdict. She was right to say he missed Drummond, and the memories of that perfect night a year ago had indeed shaken him with bittersweet poignance, but he had revisited them many times before with no reminder, and he maintained his peace with the hole Drummond left behind. No, what was killing him was a new thought, a terrible conclusion that offered no absolution. For in learning that he was to be a father, he realised he could no longer wish for a different end. 

For months, without conscious awareness, he had balanced his emotions on a kind of equivalence between his love for Drummond and his love for Wils. Different as they were, his loves for each of them were equal, and by her grace, never in competition. So, should the hypothetical ever cross his mind, he could always wish Drummond back to life with confidence in the self-evident nature of the preference. But now. Now, the future became the present, and what could be equal now? The moment she made that timid smile, before she even said the words, a whole new kind of love had erupted, for the child, and for her too, and he could not trade it for anything.

For all his talk of embracing the future, he had neglected to acknowledge how time would make them grow, how sharing the experience of life would deepen their bond, and above all, how creating new life together would alter the very foundations of his self-conception and his purpose. The change had been instantaneous, as though a hidden part of him had been preparing all along, and had brought joy like he had never known. Yet, to accept the joy was to accept the necessary conditions for its genesis, and if he did that – well – it might as well have been him holding the pistol. 

And the alternative? To reject his child was the most despicable thing he could fathom. So, his was a hard, uncommutable sentence either way.

Around this loop of thinking he marched until he collapsed into the mental murk of nameless guilt, slumped against the balusters, and fell into a restless sleep. At dawn, he rose unrefreshed and sickened by the sense he could not escape the prison of paradox. Picking up the soft carthen in which Wils had lovingly wrapped him against the chill of midnight, he came to the idea he could not face her. How could he possibly explain? How could he ever expect her to understand? He could not, and he could not bear the risk she would wake and come for him with her loving kindness. 

He slipped into the house, helped himself to coffee, which he hastily gulped as he hastily scrawled a note for Harrison. He penned a second note for Wilhelmina declaring that he preferred to ride and would see her at Grosvenor, then, without so much as changing clothes, he hurried to the stable and had his horse through the gate before the sun could breach the windows of the second floor. 

*********************************************

The London weather had turned as stifling as the tension between the walls of 42 Grosvenor Place. Though Alfred had re-entered the present, he did so in a rote repetition of routine. He rediscovered the habit of donning his uniform, whether the day required it or not, as a ritual to steel himself against unwanted thoughts and any emotions at all. He rarely smiled. He left for the Palace early and often came home after Wilhelmina had gone to bed. On the nights they went out or shared dinner, he asked her how she was feeling, always at the moment they sat, always in the same forced way, always with a question about the weather or the meal ready as soon as she had given her answer. Then afterward, he shut himself in the library claiming some excuse or another to refuse the invitation to join her in the music room, or the courtyard garden, or the bed chamber. He knew with every instance he shunned her he succumbed to a disgraceful cowardice. The dishonour lashed him each time he turned away, and the longer he let it go on, the guiltier he became. Yet the more guilt he accepted, the more he sought to avoid her.

Once he was alone, he removed his armour and let his mind rasp and bellow its circular argument, as if he needed further convincing. He paced between his desk and the bar, stopping to pour himself a whiskey and, for minutes at a time, to stare at Drummond’s portrait. On the nights he opened the ebony box, he was reminded of the devotion of his wife, and seized with the garrotte-like guilt, careened between elaborate plans to make amends for his behaviour and the arresting notion that the act would release Drummond to the past once and for all. He was reminded too of his belief that Drummond would wish him well and of the signs of his blessing, but perhaps that was only the faith of a wishful fool. What could Drummond want more than to be alive?

Wilhelmina remembered the dark despondency that had shadowed him a year ago and the remark of his sister Adelaide, how he became distant whenever he was hurting. So, she did not fall into thinking his heart had changed. Indeed, she hurt for him and so renewed her promise to love him unconditionally. Yet, there was so little sense to this resurgence of grief and her sudden exclusion. In her mind, she revisited the hour of her announcement over and over. Every expression, touch, and word sprang from pure joy. How could he go from elation to its reverse so quickly? And why should the ill feelings become so entrenched? She could only assume that they had moved too quickly – from mourning to marriage to a child in half a year – and the sum of change had suddenly caught up. Perhaps it had been reckless to go along with such a plan. If so, she bore as much responsibility for the result as he did.

Her concern grew as days became weeks of trying on her own to lead him out of his melancholia. She kept the windows open and the menu full of fresh summer foods. She put extra effort into her own appearance, having Alice do more with her hair and pampering her complexion, which after its initial irritation seemed to be clearing into the fabled glow of one with child. She scoured the papers for interesting topics of conversation and kept lively correspondence with their friends about which she could report. At night she would knock lightly on the library door to say she was off to bed with an invitation to join that with each attempt went from hopeful welcome to weary pleading to heartbroken resignation that he would not come any more. 

All the while, she saw to herself in every regard and applied her wits and energies to taking care of the tiny life inside her. She disclosed the news to her closest friends so that she might receive their advice but was forced to make vague excuses when they inquired as to Alfred’s certain happiness. On that matter, there were no confidants, for there was no way to speak of the subject without risk of exposing him. So, with patience stretched to the limits of compassion, she persevered alone. 

One particularly humid evening, when no breeze freshened the house or relieved the unpleasant dampness of upholstery and clothing, when she had felt ill and lonely all day, her patience came to an abrupt end as she waited to see whether Alfred would come home for dinner. He came, no sooner than Beale’s call, and lobbed his usual question across the table without even looking up. “Wouldn’t you like to ask me something else?” she pleaded. 

“And what would that be?” he retorted, clearly irritated to have been taken off his steady course.

“Anything Alfred! Anything at all about the baby, my finding a midwife, designs for the nursery, when we shall make official announcements. Anything.”

He hesitated with the hurt expression that brought the deep furrow to his brow. “It is too soon,” he protested dismissively, then letting anger set in his eyes, “Before the quickening, plans are no more than foolish speculation.”

“I see,” she said with a cold tone meant to hide her devastation. “I shall not speak of it again.” With no further word, she left the table and took herself upstairs where he could not hear her weep. Never had he uttered more cutting words, not to her. He was a man possessed, and she was at her wits’ end. After she had composed herself, she sent for her dinner (the little one would not allow her to skip a meal) and resolved she must have help. She prayed earnestly, recalling the love of God to be as much a challenge as a comfort. To invite witnesses to their trouble seemed a violation, but what more could she do? She must trust that those who knew and loved them would maintain the discretion they always had. She wished she could reach Septimus, but timely correspondence was impossible, so she wrote to Adelaide, begging her confidence and asking for any scrap of advice she could provide. Then she penned a note to Aunt Buccleuch saying to expect her for luncheon the next day. 

*******************************************

Wilhelmina entered the Duchess of Buccleuch’s drawing room with the intention of holding her reserve, describing the problem plainly, and receiving the matriarch’s wisdom with grace, but when she saw the loving concern in her aunt’s eyes, she lost her composure and ran sobbing to her lap. The Duchess allowed the spectacle until the chime of the clock indicated the time for luncheon. To rid oneself of hysteria was at times both necessary and productive, but three minutes was quite enough. “Wilhelmina, dear child, dry your eyes. Let us have a sensible meal, and I shall hear what troubles you so.”

Wilhelmina followed her aunt’s command and over the most sensible meat pie recounted what had happened in more detail than she had planned, finishing in tearful self-recrimination, “I ought not to have assumed he was reconciled, to have waited until the year was past.”

The Duchess gave her a stern look. “Wilhelmina, I can agree you might have found a more auspicious moment in a rainy Tuesday morning, but you cannot blame yourself. I have seen such abrupt cases of ill humour in men returned from the War, who at some unpredicted sound or smell lurch into melancholy. It is the great weakness of men that they underestimate the climate of the mind the way they underestimate Russian winters.”

“Oh Aunt, I am frightened. What can be done for him to recover?” 

The Duchess began to ponder the question even as she responded without answering, “I have no doubt in the loyalty of Lord Alfred’s character. He will come around Wilhelmina. In the meantime, you must bear up. For the sake of the child.” She paused, thinking. Then taking a gentler tone, she said, “You need a woman’s sensibility, and you must get out of the city air. Perhaps, you would take me to see Wynnefield.”

“I am not sure, Aunt,” Wilhelmina protested, “You will find Wynnefield is quite rustic compared to your usual accommodations.”

“Wilhelmina, I am for standards, not luxuries.”

Wilhelmina looked away, feeling her tears well again. Quietly, with a tone near desperation, she said, “I cannot desert him. Not when the dreadful anniversary approaches. I cannot.”

The Duchess sat up and set her shoulders in an imperious posture. She waited for Wilhelmina’s eye then said firmly, “It is not desertion, Wilhelmina, to leave the left flank under siege when it is your mission to hold the hill you occupy. You may let him know in certain terms you stand by him and will receive him when he seeks you, but we are going. It is settled.” 

“Yes, Aunt,” she submitted, “Please just allow me a few days to put some things in order.”

“Very well, Wilhelmina, my trunks will be delivered the day after tomorrow and we depart after breakfast the next day.” 

When Wilhelmina had gone, the Duchess weighed her options. She approached the breach of any family’s privacy with the utmost hesitation, but considering the stakes, an exception could be warranted. By teatime, she concluded she was within her rights to intervene. With the deftness of a courtier’s pen, she wrote to the Marquess of Angelssey.

***************************************************

Wilhelmina returned home in a state of tenuous determination. She had put herself in her aunt’s hands and now must follow through with a prescription requiring immediate attention to the inadequacies of staff and furnishings. In the library, she sorted through the trade catalogues she had accumulated, setting aside Au Bon Marche and Gobelins, as nothing could be gotten from France in the space of two days. In her arms she gathered the listings of Harrods, the Army and Navy Co-operative Society, and Thomas Chippendale’s factory, each of which could provide immediate service and maintained the open accounts Alfred had established for her use. She noticed each had dog-eared pages. Flipping one open, she saw Alfred had made cheerful notes regarding his preferences when times were burgeoning with the excitement of dreams. How long ago it seemed. How she missed him! She closed the book, and looking up, found herself eye to eye with Drummond’s portrait. Without thinking, she cried aloud, “Won’t you do something?”

Through the door, Beale poked his head. “Did you call ma’am?” he asked.

“Oh! No, Beale,” she answered in blushed embarrassment. “I am afraid I was speaking to myself. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

“Not at all, ma’am.”

“However, since you are here, might I ask you to help me with a message?” Beale nodded. “I need to see Mrs. Skerrett from the Palace as soon as possible. You may tell her it is in regard to the matter we discussed at Windsor.”

“Of course, ma’am.” Beale moved to leave, but she held up a finger as she turned toward Alfred’s desk and dumped the catalogues on top.

“One moment, please, Beale,” she said as she sat in the chair and retrieved a note card from the drawer. Quickly, with plain sincerity and little art, she wrote to Alfred to inform him she would be travelling with the Duchess. She included her fervent desire for his company but made it clear his decision would not affect her plans. She sealed the note and handed it to Beale. “Please see that Lord Alfred gets this as well.”

“My pleasure, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Beale,” she said with a weary smile intended for his benefit.

The following day, Wilhelmina met first with Mrs. Skerrett then her acquaintance, one Marjory Glendenning. Mrs. Glendenning arrived promptly at the time of their appointment wearing a prim cotton frock in a plaid of muted greys and greens, a rather fine piece of lace pinned at the neckline, and a bonnet fashioned more expensively than one would expect of a housekeeper. She was perhaps fifty, though she clearly took pains to retain her youth, and her sharp eye and shrewd demeanour gave one the feeling she did not come from the ranks of service and was used to dealing with people on her own terms. Beale looked at her sceptically as she sized up Wilhelmina, making calculations that would almost all turn out correct. He left them in the library, and the interview began.

By now, Wilhelmina was a seasoned lady of the house. She was not put off by the unusual appearance of the applicant nor afraid to engage her directly. She took a candid approach to put an end to the woman’s guessing, making plain what would soon be obvious and leaving the rest in its unsuspected hiding place across the room. Having described her situation and the urgent need the invitation of her aunt imposed, she directed the candidate to do the same, saying, “Now, Mrs. Glendenning, tell me of your experience.”

Mrs. Glendenning smiled with sly confidence. “You might say I’ve kept house for gentlemen of every stripe. Officers, scholars, even a bishop if I recall, though I wouldn’t testify to it. Mine is a discrete sort of housekeeping and an independent one. I’ve managed a staff of two dozen and kept the books in the black for twenty-nine years. I know my Wedgewood from my Spode and my Armagnac from my Bon Bois. You must take me for my word. If you are hoping for greater detail, I am afraid you will be disappointed.”

Wilhelmina found the commentary rather haughty but chose to ignore it and instead asked in an aloof tone, “Why would a woman in business for herself, the clear beneficiary of her own accomplishment, wish to humble herself to the lonely position of warden of a seldom occupied country house?”

The woman wavered only briefly, allowing a slight slump in her shoulders before throwing them back and saying with soft, more open pride, “I have a son, probably about your age. He was a bright boy, but I could not give him the education he was due. He started with the railroad when people thought it was the devil’s contraption. Now, he knows all there is to know about engines and the like. He is advanced to a good station, but it is a competitive business, and…” She caught herself rambling, and resuming measured tone, continued, “and, for his sake, I wish to leave London behind.”

“For his sake,” Wilhelmina repeated in a drifting tone, then catching the woman’s eye again, she narrowed hers and said directly, “I shall assume you are not one to judge the private conduct of men.”

“Not men nor women,” Mrs. Glendenning answered without hesitation, though with surprise at the forward nature of the declaration. Perhaps she had underestimated the young Lady she perceived as inexperienced and vulnerable.

“Good,” said Wilhelmina. 

“Let me be clear,” said Mrs. Glendenning in her haughty tone. “I seek a position of management, with staff and fair pay. My days of tending to bed chambers are over.”

“Oh no, nothing like that,” replied Wilhelmina with slight alarm. Then letting defensiveness get the better of her, she added, “The bed chamber is well tended.”

“Good,” said Mrs. Glendenning.

 _Or it was_ , thought Wilhelmina, her face falling. Mrs. Glendenning sensed a deeper trouble than an overbearing aunt and gave her a look of compassion but refrained from inquiring. Despite her bravado, Wilhelmina could see she was a woman of substance. She had come to read trustworthiness quickly and surely, and Mrs. Glendenning possessed it. For a moment, they sat in silent camaraderie, two women on the edge of desperation, able to help each other. Wilhelmina rang for tea and biscuits and offered the position. Mrs. Glendenning smiled saying, “I forgot to mention my talent for making every sort of ginger cake.” Wilhelmina returned the smile with a chuckle. 

Then Mrs. Glendenning softened unexpectedly. “Lady Paget,” she said with a humility she had so far not displayed, “I do not want to you to think I embarked on this life some frivolous tart. I was raised proper, and my son is not a bastard. I was married three nights before my husband shipped out for the War. He was bound for Belgium, but the ship was ravaged by dysentery and he never landed. It all happened so fast. The records were never filed, or so they say. I spent months trying to recover his pension, but who was I but another woman with a brat? I became something of a fixture around the War Office, and as they say, one thing led to another. You’ll see, there is nothing you won’t do for your child.”

Hearing the story, Wilhelmina found herself on the verge of tears again. “Yes, I believe so,” she replied.

*****************************************

The anniversary of Drummond’s death dawned with none of the ominous chill and mist that had attended the days following their return from Scotland. Rather, the mocking summer sun seemed intent on a demonstration of how profoundly things could change in a year. It brightly filled the front rooms of 42 Grosvenor Place, except for the library where it could only seep around the edges of the closed shutters, forcing favoured darkness to yield to a dim sulphur haze. Alfred laid awake on the sofa, his face turned toward its back, unsure of whether he had slept. He heard a soft wrapping on the door and the gentle sound of Wilhelmina’s voice bidding him good morning. Nothing was good about this morning. The very words were an affront, and he did not respond. He heard the turn of the doorknob and the staccato thuds of the door rattling against the chair he had dragged in front of it, then his wife calling in warm, honeyed tones forced over fear and sadness, “Alfred, are you awake?” He pretended sleep. “Alfred?” She banged on the door. “Alfred!” He groaned his presence but still did not answer her. “Alfred! Please! Let me in. I feel for the sorrow of this day. Let me bring you comfort.”

“No,” he groaned again. “There is no comfort.” He rolled to face the ceiling, tearing at his hair before putting his arm over his eyes.

“If comfort is beyond reach, then love,” she begged, “Come join those who love you. Let us hold you in consolation until comfort comes.” 

“No!” he shouted. “Leave me!” 

Wilhelmina bit her fist to stifle sobs. The Duchess, who stood by, keeping to herself, took her by the shoulder and led her away from the door with a reassuring nod. Wilhelmina gathered herself and rang for Harrison who emerged from below stairs. Though the valet was keenly aware of his lord’s ill temper, she gave a rudimentary explanation of the day’s significance and made him promise to keep a close eye. Then she gave a last look to the library doors and prayed that she did the right thing before joining her aunt in the coach that seemed to depart before she was even settled.

When the sounds of the horses had disappeared into the distance, Alfred got up. He relieved himself then stalked around his dressing room. He removed his shirt and threw it over the mirror to blot out his reflection then returned to the library where he pulled the old black arm band from the ebony box. With his teeth, he cinched it, almost as tight as a tourniquet, until he could feel the blood throb in his fingers. He took a bottle of whiskey from the bar and once again laid on sofa facing the horrific vitality of Drummond’s portrait.

************************************************

Wilhelmina and the Duchess stayed the night in Chelmsford while Beale, Alice, and Mrs. Glendenning went ahead to open the house. Mrs. Glendenning’s new co-workers filled her in on the peculiarities their employers, the recent turn of events, and the ever-present mystery of secrets not fully known to them. Such was the position of servants, to attend with incurious dispassion and protect with fierce loyalty the strange histories and happenings they could only infer. Mrs. Glendenning decisively made inferences of her own and set her mind to the provisions of care she believed were needed. She stayed up past midnight, charting her course, and when they awakened the next morning, she took charge in charismatic fashion. The first task was to remove the wreath of willow and desiccated blossoms that would surely make a rude reminder. Then, despite her disavowal of duties beyond management, the indefatigable boss set them all to scrubbing and polishing until every surface reflected the spirit of resilience and every window breathed the freshness of optimism. 

She introduced herself to Greenleaf and made orders from the potager, saying she planned to take the role of cook as well until someone could be hired. The two found instant rapport and would become fast friends. Greenleaf explained his fondness for the mistress and offered limitless assistance. Sending Jules to toil over some arduous task, he marked out an idea for a new rose terrace between the library and the potager. He had intended to suggest it in the winter, but perceiving the need for a distraction, he changed his plans.

When Wilhelmina and the Duchess finally arrived, the household was ready for them. Wilhelmina’s heart warmed to see the people in her employ had worked so far beyond expectation. She gave her aunt the tour and gladly received her unexpected praise and the old stories of her early days of starting up her household. There was no strength like that of knowing one was of robust stock, tied in kinship to survivors of other battles at other times who offered unwavering confidence that the best of times would return. Gradually, her anxiety eased as she drew on her faith, the love and courage within her replenished by the care of others. 

**********************************************

Henry Paget looked up from the Duchess of Buccleuch’s alarming letter and was shocked to see Adelaide standing before his desk, her slight frame nearly overwhelmed by the bulge beneath her frock. She wore a look of urgency more earnest than her usual rush and flurry. The Marquess glanced back at the letter and suspected he knew what concern could make her break her confinement to come to him in person. “Does Cadogan know you’re here?” he levelled with a pointed glance at her midsection.

“He is seeing to the horses. Papa, I had to come,” she protested to his look of disapproval. “And never you mind. If something should happen, Mama knows more than any midwife. I am not worried about that. I am worried about…” The Marquess held up the letter.

“I think I know what has you worried. I am going to see to it straight away. Go find your mother, then, Sweetheart, take your rest. I cannot tend to two of you at once.”

After she had gone, the Marquess reread the letter and rubbed his head. He rang for his valet to pack his bag and arrange for tickets. He spoke with his wife and ate a simple meal. Then, though he could have happily died having never set foot upon industrious transportation, he boarded a chartered steamer to Liverpool and caught the first train to London. 

Just past eleven in the morning, as the midsummer sun beat down on the houses of Grosvenor Place, the Marquess pulled into his at number 42, took out his keys, and let himself in. It was quiet except for the faint clinking of pans and muffled voices of servants in conversation downstairs. He looked around and saw the library doors were closed as its shutters had been. Aha. He steeled himself for what he might find inside and the actions he must take, then he turned to enter but stopped short. His son was a grown man. He would have the respect of a warning. As quietly as he could, the Marquess entered the reception hall and rang for Alfred’s valet. Before he had released the bell, the man appeared looking quite surprised to find someone in the house then astonished to recognize it was the Commander.

The Marquess addressed him, “Good day. Harrison, is it?”

Harrison stood at attention. “Yes Sir,” he replied.

“At ease, my good man. I am pleased to meet you. I understand you were at Waterloo.”

“Yes, Sir. Thirteenth, Sir.”

“They tell me you gave better than you got and may have been the last to see my leg,” said the Marquess with a raise of his eyebrow.

“I doubt that, Sir, but I believe I saw the offending cannon,” replied Harrison, letting a half smile cross his face.

“In any case, allow me to submit my gratitude. If it were not for you brave men, we would have lost a hell of a lot more.”

“Thank you, Sir. Now, how may I help you?”

“I am here about my son. Please inform him I wish to have a word.”

“With respect, Sir, Lord Alfred is indisposed. He is not receiving visitors presently.”

“Visitors!” The Marquess barked then took a breath and held his temper. He had no anger for a man only following his orders. “Harrison, I have travelled through the night,” he said with a look purposely betraying his concern. “If he will not receive his father under such circumstances, you can tell Major Lord Paget his superior officer will speak with him in five minutes and he’d best be ready.”

“As you wish, Sir,” said Harrison with a bow that without delay became a step, a turn, and a swift walk through the passage to the rear of the house where he entered the library through Alfred’s dressing room, grabbing a clean shirt on his way. He found Alfred sprawled on the sofa, looking rough and unshaven, perhaps hungover, but at least not drunk. Harrison delivered the Commander’s message as he held out the shirt and began clearing the empty bottles from the table. Among them were the ebony box and its poignant contents. Harrison looked to Alfred, feeling uneasy to touch them. Alfred picked up the locket and stared at it, turning it over in his hand. Harrison held his patience but poised himself in a posture of urgency. Alfred closed his eyes, took three long breaths, then placed the locket and the other items in the box, closed and locked the lid, and waved his hand to indicate it should be taken away. Harrison complied and replaced it on the desk, thinking it would be better for Alfred to take on the task himself. Looking back, he could see that the troubled man had merely put his arms through the sleeves of the shirt and returned to his sprawling position, one leg on the sofa, the other bent to the floor, fingers grinding against his temples, eyes closed. The valet once more rounded the room, making a loud point of straightening furniture and closing the dressing room door. At last, his pushed the chair away from the library doors and pulled them open to reveal the imposing figure of the Marquess.

The Marquess entered and inhaled audibly. The still, dim, hastily tidied room smelled of humidity, nerves, and stale whiskey. Without a word, he marched to the East wall and threw open the shutters. Alfred winced as the harsh, bright light struck. The Marquess set his face in a stern expression and walked with loud steps to the bar where he took a large flask from his belt and filled a glass with icy water. With the same deliberate steps, he approached the sofa, stopped to both commit and forgive himself, then threw the water in Alfred’s face. “Get up!” he commanded.

Alfred shot to his feet, blinking and wiping the water from his face with his sleeve. He met his father’s eyes and was glad to have the sofa between them. He would not speak before he was asked. At the edge of his vision, he saw Harrison retreat through the doors. They were alone. 

The Commander stared him down for what seemed like an eternity. At last, he spoke. “I trust I now have your attention.”

“Yes Sir,” replied Alfred in rote military voice.

“Good. Then sit down.” The Marquess softened his tone and gestured to a chair as he walked around the sofa and took the one opposite. He shifted his demeanour to one of patience and allowed his love for son to show through. Still, he remained stern and did not mince words. “Alfred, you are to be a father.” Alfred was not surprised he knew, but the words stung nonetheless. He looked at the floor. “I hope you will never be called upon to have a conversation such as this, though if not this one, it will be some other. A father’s duty ends only upon his death.” 

Alfred ran his fingers through his hair and fastened his shirt as he raised his head. He owed his father the respect to look him in the eye, which he did, with an expression something between weary and distraught. The Marquess took it in. He was no fool. He had a reasonable suspicion of what troubled his son, and he was not insensitive to love and loss, but to his belief, the wherefores of error were of secondary importance to the remedy. When the enemy took the field, it mattered not why the guns did not arrive on time, only how the battle would be won without them. 

He spoke carefully, “I understand this has been a shock for you. It can be for many a man. It is a great responsibility. Perhaps you doubt you are fit for it. Do you think I did not have my doubts when you came along so soon after Waterloo?” Alfred’s eyes widened. He had never imagined his father entertained a doubt in his life. The Marquess held up a hand. “But, Alfred, my love for all of you is beyond measure. It is the fiercest love I could envisage. I know things have been hard this past year, and for whatever reason, you have run headlong into a life perhaps you never expected. Now, your mother and I have never imposed our will upon you nor endeavoured to intrude upon your private affairs, but you have crossed a line, my boy.” Alfred forced himself not to look away as his father locked his gaze. “We Pagets are men of honour. We do not abandon our children, and I will not stand by while you abandon yours. The rest may be more complicated - I know well how love and honour make a muddle of each other when it comes to affairs of the heart. I will even help you if you find you’ve made a mistake.” Alfred began shaking his head vigorously, but the Marquess spoke on, raising his voice, “But not until the child is delivered and thrives and you have seen his mother safely through it!”

“No, no, Papa,” Alfred corrected with pain in his voice, still shaking his head, “That is not it. I love her … them … I do. I love them.”

“What then?” inquired the Marquess incredulously, as Alfred had dismissed the one explanation that made sense to him.

“I could not possibly explain what has happened to me.” Alfred looked away, again pressing his fingers to his temples, again wracked by vicious guilt and unable to articulate even to himself, how he had become so consumed.

“I am not here for historical explanations, Alfred. I am concerned with your behaviour right now.” He leaned forward and jabbed his finger into book atop the table, forcing Alfred to look back. “If you love Wilhelmina, then what in bloody Hell are you doing? For _what_ do you abandon your wife and your child?” Alfred knew better than to answer rhetorical questions and bowed his head to take his shame. “Now,” fumed the Marquess, “This,” he gestured to the room. “This is finished. You will go without delay to your wife and you will take the responsibility that is due to you.”

“Yes, Sir,” Alfred said lifting his head and swallowing hard. “Papa, may I ask you something?”

“Go on.”

“If you had your life to live again and were given the chance to keep your leg, would you take it knowing in all likelihood I would not be born?”

For a split second, the Marquess was taken aback. His bushy eyebrows soared high above his wide eyes then plunged like artillery fire as he became indignant. “What sort of devil’s question is that? Man, you mustn’t seek such answers. It is a false equation! … If,” he huffed, “If your mother were not such a vixen, if Mrs. Roberts were not such a fine preparer of nourishing soups, if Napoleon had stayed on Elba! If! There is no more useless word with which to talk about the past.” He stared at Alfred and narrowed his eyes. “I’ll tell you where if is useful. If you do not get up and go to your wife right now, you will be unforgivable! … Harrison!”

“Yes Sir.” Harrison appeared in the door.

“A razor and a pair of boots. This man is to be ready to travel in half an hour.”

“Yes Sir.”

With that, the Marquess let himself out and made a point to leave the door to the library open. He waited all of four minutes in the reception hall before hunting down Mrs. Willet with instructions to ready meals for travel and bring him stationary with which to write to the Palace to convey his temporary commandeering of Alfred’s essential duties. After twenty-eight and a half minutes, Alfred emerged, looking polished if not entirely spry. Harrison stood behind him at attention, a full bag in each hand. The Marquess addressed him first. “Well done Harrison,” he said. “Now, is there anyone you need to inform before you go?”

“No, Sir,” replied Harrison.

“Very well. I trust you can attend to the horses. Stop by the kitchen on your way out. Lord Alfred will be along momentarily.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Alfred, do not mistake me,” said the Marquess, turning to his son with a tone of compassion. “Whatever loss you equate to a limb is not to be denied. This wood,” he tapped his prosthetic leg with his stick, “has yet to turn to flesh. But keep it in its place. You are needed now, and you will be again and again. Now go, man. Godspeed!”

“Apace, Papa.” Alfred gave a half bow and turned on his heel, exiting swiftly to the coach house. Mounting his horse, he said to Harrison, “Commander to the end,” and without hesitation, followed his orders.

About an hour out of London, Alfred turned to his valet. “Harrison,” he asked, “Did you really see my father’s leg blown off?”

“Yes, Sir,” replied Harrison plainly.

“And, in your estimation, was there any way it could have been avoided?” Harrison appeared nervously thoughtful. He was not apt to criticise his superiors, even thirty years on. “What I mean to ask,” amended Alfred, “is were there other possible outcomes? Would the direction of the wind been different? Had the gunner hesitated? That sort of thing.”

“I suppose not, Sir,” answered Harrison, unconsciously rubbing his disfigured nose, “as the outcome we have is the one that … in point of fact … happened.”

“Hmm,” responded Alfred, unsatisfied.

Harrison turned toward him. “Sir, have you heard of a thing called an algorithm?”

“I think so,” replied Alfred, “I met Ada Lovelace once. Why do you ask?”

“Lord Torrington,” answered Harrison cautiously, “he was an enthusiast for mathematical philosophy. He knew Countess Lovelace and Babbage and Boothe. Anyway, he used to talk about them. He liked to say you could predict the future if only an algorithm with infinite variables could be produced. It seems to me you would need the same thing to be certain about what might have been.”

“And it is impossible of course.”

“Quite impossible, Sir.”

************************************

The days at Wynnefield were indeed a balm for Wilhelmina. The weather was lovely, though not the kind of lovely that runs up against perfection and leads to longing. The temperature was neither hot nor cold, the sky neither sunny nor cloudy, and the spells of rain neither cosy nor dramatic. Distractions were plentiful thanks to Greenleaf’s ambitious project, a delightful new bookseller in Long Melford, and her aunt’s insistence that neighbours be invited to tea. Mrs. Glendenning proved a wonder in making the most of the functioning parts of the house, and true to her word, produced the most delicious ginger cakes with such frequency that on any given day, one might wake assuming it was Christmas morning. Wilhelmina ate her fill, and when she found she needed to let out her corset, she was unsure whether to attribute the change to the baby or the cakes.

The cheerful, busy hours filled time not as mementos fill a holiday traveller’s trunk but as a meagre meal fills a starving stomach. Enough. Enough to persevere. Enough to keep from going mad with worry. Just enough, for the lonely hours visited too, and on top of her fear for him, she missed Alfred terribly. She wondered if he would come for her, if relations between them would ever be right again, if he would be there for the child she tried to protect from such dark thoughts. For the child, she put off contemplating catastrophic scenarios, renewed her faith at every low point, and practiced her mantra of love and courage with every waking breath. It was in the spirit of such faith she and her aunt attended Sunday services at Holy Trinity and lingered past noon to feel the embrace of the loving God within its walls. 

Thus, Wilhelmina returned home renewed of hope. It was from the shadows of the yew hedge; she spied the figure of a man standing alone in the court outside the door. Her heart leapt. As the carriage pulled closer, she could see he was dressed for riding and dusty from the road, though he was without a horse and had no occupation but waiting. He looked to the carriage eagerly, as though he might break into a run toward it. She leaned her head out the window to confirm it was him and broke into a tearful smile. When the carriage finally stopped, she nearly bolted from her seat before she caught her aunt’s expression of more reserved optimism. Realising the uncertainties inherent in their reunion, she took caution as a footman helped her from the coach, and she stood waiting for Alfred to approach.

The same cautious uncertainty tethered Alfred to the spot where he had been standing for more than two hours. He had arrived mid-morning and could not bring himself to do more than wait for this moment, reviewing the things he meant to say and reflecting on the man he hoped to be. He had made use of the long ride, of the medicine of open air and the time to think clearly. He had replayed his father’s words and confronted the ordeal he had caused his wife – his darling Wils – refusing the clawing circular guilt and nurturing the drive to make amends. He had not been alone. Along the way, Harrison showed himself a wise and valuable companion, hanging back when Alfred required solitude and offering reliable presence when he felt inclined to talk. As it happened, the valet was a conqueror of his own dark times and had become a master of putting one foot in front of the other until feelings caught up with actions, advice with which he endowed the man he considered, for the time being, less his lord than his charge. So it was that Alfred tenuously returned to himself and hoped Wilhelmina would receive him.

For several moments, they stood apart, staring at each other. The move was Alfred’s, and at last, with the timidity of contrition, he stepped toward her. He came empty-handed, for there was no token nor symbol that could speak for him now. “Wilhelmina…” he said in almost a whisper. He filled his face with openness and did not let his eyes leave hers, and when he reached for her hand, tears began flowing down her cheeks. “Will you walk with me?” he asked.

She took his hand, and he held her delicate fingers, tenderly tracing over them. His touch revealed how unsure he was of his welcome. Every stroke was a question, an apology, and a request. While he studied the lines of her fingers, she brought her free hand to his face, brushed his cheek, and picked up his chin so that he would look at her again. In his gaze, she found the love – humble, weary, and vulnerable – of one who has done wrong through no fault of his own but has come back to take up his place. She answered it with the steadfast love that had sustained her, knowing the return of the wayward must be met with grace and gratitude. 

Silently, he led her around the shady North side of the house to the shelter of the lime tree. There he stopped and took both her hands, raising them to his mouth before looking into her eyes once more and saying, “I am sorry. To the depth of my soul, I am sorry.” He let the words stand on their own before saying anything more. She needed nothing more to accept him. There would be much to discuss, but she would not hold him in suspense. She embraced him tightly and buried her face in his shoulder. He responded in kind and held her until she let go. Keeping her hand, he gestured to the tree and helped her find a comfortable seat among its roots. He sat near and, looking at her plainly, he said, “What you must think. Wils, I must beg your forgiveness. I bring no excuse, but I believe I owe you an explanation.”

“Alfred, first I want to know you are alright and you have come to stay.”

“To stay? Yes, my darling, yes of course. As for the state of my wits, I have resolved to recover, and no matter how I may suffer, I wish not to mistreat you ever more. You have given me everything, everything for which I have asked.”

“But not everything you want.”

“Darling, no. It is a matter of greater complication. With the effort of mourning, one relinquishes what one cannot have. I knew not the failure of the effort until the light of this new life revealed it to me.” He placed a hand on her waist, noticing for the first time it had grown. “We have all the joys of life ahead of us, Wils, and we will be enriched by their visitation, but he is fixed in time, as still as the portrait on the wall. He is unchanged by the joy of this arrival.” 

“And you cannot bear the contrast?”

“I must bear it. I wish to bear it. Wils, I am in awe. I am filled with a most affecting love. But how can one avoid the blight of sorrow knowing it is by his death?”

In his question, Wilhelmina perceived the germ of his torture. She wished desperately she could release him. Summoning all her grace and ingenuity, she risked a question of her own, “Tell me, Alfred, what do you think would have happened had he lived?”

Alfred thought for a moment. Through the fear of hurt, he spoke with unvarnished honesty, “I suppose we would have carried on loving while the world had its way. He was ambitious. He would have come around to the view he needed a wife if for nothing more than cover, and I was to marry an heiress when she came of age. We would have been among the number of faithless marriages, finding our happiness in the stolen hours.” Wilhelmina’s face filled with angst. She was not sure what she found more distressing, that the men she loved would take an attitude of such disregard for the women thus ensnared or that society should put them in a position with no alternative. Alfred saw it, and with a reassuring grasp of her arm, he continued, “I feel very differently now … because of you.” The reassurance lasted only a moment before an anguished look crossed his face and he bent his head toward the ground, saying, “And in that, I commit the worst sort of betrayal.”

She would not let his argument stand. “Alfred, you must know you cannot betray him when you did not choose. You may have found happiness or misery in that life or an any number of others you do not imagine, and you may find the same in this one, but it was never your choice between them.” 

“So I have been told. Perhaps my want for absolution is wrong headed, but I struggle to…” he stopped, seeing Wilhelmina had suddenly closed her eyes and begun taking deep, deliberate breaths. “Wils, what is it?” he asked urgently.

She gripped his hand against the surge of queasiness. “Alfred,” she said with authority, “Alfred, we have much to sort out, and we shall, but right now, I must have something to eat.”

Without hesitation, he set aside all complication in favour of meeting the simplest of needs. “Darling, please allow me to help,” he said. “It would be my honour to fetch you something. What would you like?”

“Ginger cake,” she replied decisively, “A very large slice of ginger cake.”

Alfred hid his puzzlement over the mysteries of ginger cake behind her hand as he kissed it firmly. He figured he could learn what he needed when he got there and wasted not a moment before he took off at a run toward the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yes, this all got a little darker than I had planned. Perhaps it is the times we live in. However, I must say, as much as I like fantasy trips to the nineteenth century, writing this chapter made me grateful to be in the twenty-first where there are so many more options for family formation and we at least acknowledge mental health. Your author does not pretend to be an expert in such matters nor to suggest that the characters have acted in ways considered best practice today. They did what they each would do given their personalities and the actions and attitudes available to them. The mind can be the worst sort of trickster in any age, so if this chapter serves in any way as a PSA for taking care of one’s mental health, whether one is suffering oneself or supporting someone who is, I am glad for it. It’s rough out there – take care!
> 
> PS: The catty comments regarding the Duchess of Monmouth are entirely intentional. What a lame replacement for a rich and interesting storyline.
> 
> Floriography:
> 
> The careful reader will observe this is the first chapter in which the language of flowers hits its limit of adequacy.
> 
> Historical Notes:
> 
> The 1847 Royal Ascot Gold Cup was indeed won by a horse called The Hero, owned and trained by “Old John” Day and ridden by his son Alfred. The Days were an accomplished family in horse racing if also notorious cheaters. “Old John” trained horses for Lord Pam among other notables. Georgeanne is entirely fictitious.
> 
> Prince (later King) Frederick of Denmark was on of those monarchs who got away with scandal because the people loved him, partly for his personality, but also because he submitted to a constitutional monarchy. Twice divorced, he eventually married Louise Rasmussen, though she was not of high enough rank to be considered his queen. He was fond of her son with printmaker and heir to Denmark’s main newspaper Carl Berling, and according to some accounts quite fond of Berling himself. After he married Louise, he took Berling on as his chamberlain, and they all lived quite closely.
> 
> There are volumes to be read on the weird attitudes toward pregnancy in the Victorian Era. You, Dear Reader can Google too. For the purposes of our story, it is worth noting that morning sickness was considered quite a good thing. It was thought to be a sign of health as well as a useful tell that prevented women from hiding pregnancy. On one hand, this probably subjected them to all the above-mentioned weird attitudes as early as possible, but it also caused the experienced women in their lives to rally around, which in the absence of anything we would call prenatal care, was crucial help. Ginger has been a remedy for time out of mind.
> 
> While prenatal care relied mainly on folk ways, mental health as a concept and the care of it was all but non-existent. Mental illness was either dismissed, romanticised, or treated harshly and was almost always seen as connected to moral failing.


	12. A Chance Redemption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chance encounter gives Alfred perspective and purpose, and with Wilhelmina’s support, sets in motion a world at Wynnefield Hall that is more than meets the eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Readers, the last chapter was tough. I hope not too much so. Hang on, because we have a little more heartbreak to go, this time of a more Dickensian variety (that is if Dickens had sympathy for our themes), but I promise good to come of it.

It was during the time of Alfred’s recovery – if one could call by that name the ceaseless and uneven practice of acknowledging the immutably linear nature of history and one’s powerlessness to do more than forgive oneself and do good in one’s next act – that he hit upon the idea of horses. Through his daily rides, he had become familiar with every square foot of Wynnefield and thought deeply about what it should produce and his role in the undertaking. He was not an agricultural man, having grown up between the seaside and the city, and he had little interest in the constant distraction of precarious changes in the weather in Suffolk when he could not be there. So, there would be no crops. Besides, the estate boasted glorious pastureland, which was its better use. In its heyday, Wynnefield held sheep for miles and had been among the producers enriching the East Angelia wool towns and making Suffolk one of the wealthiest places in England. But, no more. Wealth followed industry, and most of Britain’s wool production had moved North. Now Suffolk’s sheep went mainly for meat.

In contrast, Wynnefield’s current small flock enjoyed a life of aesthetic leisure to be envied by even the most frivolous aristocrat. Its members had been spared liquidation by the agent’s sense that they made for a picturesque selling point, and while Alfred heartily enjoyed roast mutton with a sauce of red wine and fresh spring lamb chops just seared, he disliked looking his meal in the eye at eight in the morning then finding its memory on his plate at eight at night. Such squeamishness was unbecoming a country gentleman, he knew, but he could not bring himself to change nor spend a moment dwelling upon such a trivial character flaw. There were worse hypocrisies.

Consequently, the pastureland was more or less unused. It sprawled lush and open, broken only by the occasional happenstance apple tree, flat and dry to where it met the hilly section behind the house, falling to a little stream running through the copse. The draught horses found it an Elysium, and Alfred’s stallion seemed to gallop with a special exuberance across its grassy fields. While crops and livestock were foreign and bothersome, horses were creatures Alfred understood. Not a day he could remember, save a few at sea, had been spent apart from them. He well knew them, and he well knew their uses, particularly with regard to the Cavalry. To breed Cavalry Blacks, war stallions, and perhaps a racehorse or two would suit him and the land perfectly. 

When he suggested the idea to Wilhelmina, she gave her enthusiastic approval, and so he set about investigations into the business and plans to bring it to fruition. His studies led him to a growing horsehair factory in Lavenham that made everything from bow strings to crinolines to railway seats. Most of its inputs were slaughtered imports, but at a rate of fifty shillings per pound and the unfortunate demise of animals a certainty, a relationship was worth considering. Thus, Alfred endeavoured to meet its proprietor at pub called the George and Dragon in Long Melford on a cloudy morning toward the end of August.

He arrived at a village bustling with people, many of whom seemed bound for its other end, and he wondered what could be afoot as he hitched his horse to a post in front of the Village Hall and proceed down street to the pub. About to cross the threshold, he was stopped by a pair of eager young women carrying a placard with the words “Lips That Touch Alcohol Will Never Touch Mine” and distributing leaflets bemoaning the “neglect of duty, moral degradation, and crime” inherent in the consumption of liquor. Wearing dowdy dresses and severe hairstyles under dark, unadorned cloth bonnets, they claimed membership in an outfit called the Band of Hope and beseeched him in sanctimonious tones to turn back. Chagrined, Alfred beheld them. One bore a stocky frame and an awkward face while the other might have been quite pretty but seemed to take pains to counter rather than enhance her looks, and he caught himself in the rude thought they needn’t worry for their lips. He was irritated at their gall and answered with an impenetrable glare as he waived away the flyer and proceeded through the door. In earlier days, he might have been more courteous, but he found his temper for intrusions into his private decisions and the suggestion of pithy hope remarkably short. What did these busybodies know of the nightmares that drove men to drink?

Inside the George and Dragon, he found a more hospitable atmosphere along with the companionable industrialist, Mr. William Roper, who having arrived early, was already halfway through a pint. Alfred signalled for the same and tried to replace his annoyed expression with something more congenial. Sharp as hair scissors, Roper saw through him, and jokingly raised a toast, “To the Temptresses of Temperance.” Alfred laughed genuinely and remembered what it was like to take himself and the world less seriously. The two men exchanged the customary pleasantries then conducted a swift and successful interview ending with the promise to reconvene when Alfred had his business up and running. Begging an extension of the man’s insight into matters local, Alfred asked if he knew what might be occurring at the far end of town to draw the stream of people he had witnessed.

“That would be the Fullers Guild,” said Roper, settling back in his chair and squinting one eye in a way meant to make one check one’s certainty of wanting an answer. Alfred signalled for him to go on. “They are no ‘guild’ atall – there hasn’t been a guild of any use here in a hundred years at least – a bunch of rabblerousers pissed they couldn’t take their fathers’ jobs at the mill. They want everyone to do something about it but themselves. I’ve offered half of ‘em employment, but they won’t move from Melford nor ‘stoop to do women’s work’ as they like to say. I don’t bloody care who does the work so long as we get the orders in on time. The railways are expanding faster than I can turn a blasted seat. I could use the help.”

“Are they aligned with the Chartists?”

“Perhaps. They might like to fancy themselves as such, but I doubt there’s much seriousness to it. They’re more of a local nuisance – like to make a big show of marching up to the Village Hall and such.”

“Hmm,” replied Alfred, with an interested nod that left space for the man to ramble.

“The constables ought to put a stop to it with their new powers.”

Alfred looked puzzled as he tried to place the reference. “Ah yes,” he said finally, “The Town Clauses.” The Town Police Clauses Act had passed in July, he remembered through the haze. It centralised myriad local laws and gave the constables more power to enforce provisions against unlawful demonstrations and indecent acts. Alfred had not paid much attention, but now he wondered how such sweeping powers might be used when there was little threat. _Hades’ hammer in want of a wanton nail._ He was about to inquire as to how the act was perceived, when the hiss and pop of firecrackers sounded from down the street. 

The two men leapt up and headed for the door. They heard the shattering of glass, the scream of a woman, and a disorganized commotion coming toward them. Another round of firecrackers popped, dogs barked furiously, and several young men sprinted up the street. Glancing past Roper, who cursed a blue streak as he looked on, Alfred could see the constable had collared two men and was shackling them to a tree but gave no indication to pursue the others who now ran past the pub toward the Village Hall hollering provocative slogans. Alfred followed their line to where his tethered horse grew jumpy. Quickly, he begged Roper’s pardon, bid him farewell, and headed for his horse, now stamping and straining against the hitch. 

From three blocks away, he saw a young man, perhaps eighteen or nineteen, emerge from behind a shrubbery and lay a gentle hand on the animal. The horse responded instantly with a calm not even Alfred could have produced. The man was slight of build, with a whiskerless face and a rather pale complexion. He was unshod and wore ragged clothing, which he had arranged as meticulously as one would for a promising dinner date. He displayed the mildest manner, tending to the horse even as the rabblerousers, six in all, approached. When they reached the Hall, they looked back to see no one had followed them. With no audience for their purpose, save the young man with whom they seemed familiar, they turned on him specifically.

One of the six, a burly youth with the reddish hue of continual sunburn, stepped forward and called in a sharp, aggressive tone, “What’s the matter Putney? Can’t find any blokes to buggar? Now you’re after some gent’s horse?” The slight young man cowered but continued stroking and patting the horse. Alfred hurried his pace but was still yards away. “Nothing to say for yourself, eh … as usual,” the burly youth taunted, looking back toward his gang. “Mates, we can’t let this fine horse fall victim!” He signalled to two of the others then stepped aside as one grabbed Putney’s arm and pulled him away from the horse while the other landed a punch against his jaw then dropped him with another to the gut. A third put a boot into his ribs before Alfred, now approaching at a run, shouted for them to stop. Though he was not in uniform and carried no weapons, he summoned his most imposing presence as he stepped between the fallen man and his attackers. “In the name of Her Majesty the Queen, _STOP!_ ” he commanded. 

The ruffians registered shock that they should be confronted and correctly perceived their target’s protector to be a man of stature, perhaps power. They backed away just as the constable moseyed up. “What’s going on here?” he asked Alfred who was now helping the injured man to a seated position. Seeing the victim, he did not wait for an answer. “Putney,” he spat, “I thought I wasn’t to have more trouble out of you. Get your sorry self out of here before I haul you in for indecency. Apologies M’lord. Seems to be much astir today. I hope you have not been inconvenienced.”

“I beg your pardon, Constable,” said Alfred in an authoritative tone that neither begged nor pardoned, “This man performed a great service to me, and as I believe you can see, was beaten for the trouble. I say you misplace your blame.” As he spoke, the six attackers slinked away and fled in separate directions. Alfred followed them with an incensed gaze, as the constable did nothing.

“I’m afraid there is more concerns me than a few spirited boys, M’lord. I had best be getting back to those vandals what scared the daylights out of half the village. Good day.” He pointed to the men shackled to the tree, tipped his cap, and headed in their direction. Then, without so much as a pause, he ducked into the George and Dragon, leaving the prisoners objects of the town’s gawkers as they might have been a century ago.

Alfred turned back to the young man on ground. The left side of his jaw had swollen to a great welt and dark blood oozed from his gashed lip, but he seemed to have recovered his breath, so Alfred offered him a hand up. He took it, rose halfway then doubled over as he grabbed his ribs. After a moment, he leaned against the hitching post and pulled himself upright. “Thank you, Sir,” he said in the mumbling way of one whose mouth is of little use, though he needed not be clearer, as his eyes held a moving gratitude. 

“Major Lord Alfred Paget, at your service,” replied Alfred in a disarming tone, “Putney, is it?”

“Yes Sir, Roger Putney, Sir.”

“Pardon the assumption, but it seems you may need some attention. Is there someone I could send for?”

“No Sir, I’m not bad off, Sir.”

Alfred was not at all sure the man was not bad off. Rather, he was quite certain of the danger he faced should he be left alone. “Well, I cannot have it on my conscience to leave you bloodied when I am in your debt to begin. Here, gently now.” Alfred helped the man climb aboard the horse then took the lead and walked beside it all the way to Wynnefield. Once there, he took Roger Putney to Mrs. Glendenning, who as he suspected, knew the art of stitching a wound. She cleaned him up, filled his belly, and set him to rest in one of the servants’ rooms. 

Before dinner, Alfred came back to check on him. They exchanged another round of thanks and Alfred extended an invitation to stay the night and ride back to town the next day, inquiring to where he might be taken. Looking sheepish and frightened, Roger begged off, which produced in Alfred the opposite of the intended effect. He need not ask what kept the man in such a state of guardedness. Hoping to gain his trust, Alfred changed the subject. “I was quite impressed with how you handled my horse,” he said, “He is highly trained. It takes quite a row to upset him. How is it that you knew just what to do?”

“Grown up around animals, I guess,” answered Roger without further explanation. Then almost to himself he added, “They’re a might easier’n people.”

“I see,” replied Alfred thoughtfully, feeling more and more compelled to involve himself in the man’s fate. “And do you believe that way of yours extends generally or was it just my stallion?”

“I’d say it extends. Sir, may I ask why you should care?”

“I should care that a man be mistreated by his fellows and appears to have little to put in their way. And if such a man could offer service in the care of fine horses, he might be of use to me.”

“How so?”

“I intend to bring the finest horses here to breed champions for Her Majesty’s Cavalry, and I will need grooms with the most precise instincts.”

“You would give me a job?”

“If you proved suited to the work. You would be required to take residence here, of course. Would that be a problem for you?”

Roger’s eyes flashed a hopeful desperation, even as he tried to maintain his reserve. “No, Sir. And I don’t need any fine accommodations. Stable’s good enough.” Alfred must have looked puzzled or particularly compassionate or a mix of both, because Roger suddenly let down his guard and elaborated, “I sleep in the barn as it is. My father won’t have me in the house. … Beasts with beasts, you know.”

 _Good God_ , thought Alfred. He did not know, not personally. There was a certain delicacy to the relations between all his family, but behind it was generally, latitude, loyalty, and love. At worst, they shared a mutual interest in protecting one another’s private affairs, and would no sooner cast out… His astonished reflection was interrupted, as Roger found his eye. “Major Lord Paget, you must be a good man. I would hate to cause you trouble.”

“Think nothing of it,” replied Alfred, taking on a more affirmative posture and moving toward the door. “Take tomorrow to rest, have a look around, and think about my offer. If you would like to discuss it further, be at the stable at dawn the following day.”

“Al…alright. Thank you, Sir.”

Alfred stepped into the passage then looked back and added in a pointed tone, “You could not possibly cause me more trouble than has already come and gone.” Then he shut the door, leaving Roger Putney to wonder what he meant.

*****************************

The appointed morning was wet and chilly, with steady rain and wind that moaned of summer’s end. Alfred walked the stable, noting drippy places in the roof, the ramshackle condition of the paddock doors, and the want of several more improvements before he could bring in the horses he had in mind. All the while, he arranged the central space for his other purpose, as he waited to see if Roger Putney would turn up. At half past six, the man arrived looking nervous. “Good morning,” called Alfred cheerfully.

“Good morning, Major Lord Paget,” Roger replied in his shy, mild manner. “Would you like me to start with the mucking?”

“No, Roger. You may leave the horses for today. You see, the animals I shall have are quite valuable. Anyone working with them must also serve as their guard. You have already shown me your instincts as to their care, and a groom’s specific skills can be aquired, but before any of that, I intend to teach you to fight and to shoot.”

Roger’s eyes widened with surprise, perhaps alarm. Alfred maintained an air of nonchalance, as though the interest he took was part of the regular program, and simply instructed the man to take a seat on a bench while he described the tactics of the day’s lesson. Then, Alfred showed him how to bind his bruised ribs against the pain and insisted he begin to practice despite it and his embarrassment at having never learned the skills.

For two weeks they met first thing in the morning until Alfred was satisfied the man could defend himself even if the job of a groom should fail to suit him. For his part, Roger applied himself to making a good impression, practiced diligently, and quietly got to know the horses, slipping himself into the odd jobs of the stable before any formal assignments were ever made. Alfred took note, and just as casually as he had introduced the training, he furnished a decent suit of clothes and a pair of boots and told Roger in future he should see Mrs. Glendenning on Fridays for his pay. Roger gave his thanks and lingered in the words as though he attempted to summon greater courage.

“Is there something more you need?” asked Alfred.

“Not me, Sir,” answered Roger, glancing at the ground before risking a direct meeting of Alfred’s eyes. “Major Lord Paget, I shouldn’t like to abuse your generosity, but may I ask something of you?”

“Go right ahead.”

“I have a friend could use a place far more than me. He’s a strong back and might be of use to Mr. Greenleaf or here, placin’ fences for your horses.”

“I see. And where is your friend now?”

“I’m not sure exactly. Since the weather warmed, he’s been vagabonding ‘round the county collecting junk here to trade for food and whatnot there. I was aimin’ to meet him on the road to Acton when I came upon your frightened horse.”

“This friend is dear to you?” 

“Yes, Sir,” answered Roger with a blush.

“Roger, I have placed a great deal of trust in you. What makes this man worthy of the same?”

“The same indeed. … Same basic integrity. Same lot. Though a better story I should say.” Roger made a wistful half-smile, and intrigued, Alfred asked him to go on. “Eamon is his name. Eamon Callaghan. He was an apprentice glazier at the cathedral in Cork, but he got into a spot of trouble with a junior curate. The curate was from a prominent family, so to keep it quiet, they put him on a ship to England rather than press charges. He’s made his way five years on odd jobs and vagabonding. Two winters now he’s hauled coal in Melford, which is how I came to know him.”

Alfred considered the story and the circumstance with a sceptical courtier’s mind, but his heart nagged him to trust the honest eyes of the man who reached out on another’s behalf though he was already precariously balanced on the proverbial limb himself. Moreover, he was suddenly presented with the chance to give shelter beyond a mere roof, a chance he must take, or face regret he could not withstand. “Very well. I should like to meet the fellow,” he said. “You may extend the invitation for a meal and a night’s sleep if you can find him before we take our leave.” Roger’s eyes flashed anticipation and hope as he made a bow to Alfred and quickly got to work.

*********************************************

Around the same time, Wilhelmina made her way to the old foundation just beyond the shadow of the lime tree. She did not mind the wet meadow grass brushing against her boots – or rather Alfred’s boots, and Septimus’s breeches into which she had sewed little panels of calico at the seams. How much greater the comfort than skirts growing heavier with every droplet! So what if her activity was only sketching. The sky was clearing, and it was a quiet afternoon, perfect for drafting the idea that had been ranging around her head for a fortnight. She needed to put it to paper, for she had grown impatient with endless days of contemplation, which seemed all anyone would allow her to do. 

In the garden, Greenleaf declared he would sooner quit than be party to her exertion. So, she contented herself with clipping the heads of spent flowers and giving enough superfluous direction to needle him, thus evening the score. At her behest, he and Jules had made a splendid job of the pleasure garden, which was nearly free of vines and briars, with the verge a thick green carpet, and the border beds like two long looms warped and ready to be woven into a brilliant tapestry. They had installed Harriet’s rose arbour in the new terrace, along with paths and deep beds that would be planted in the spring. Now, with the harvest season upon them, they spent much of their time working the potager, bringing in as much as they could for Mrs. Glendenning to put up, and planting the autumn greens and roots. Consequently, Wilhelmina found herself with little to do but think.

She thought about the baby and motherhood, her worries and doubts and happy fantasies, but she found little use in dwelling on particulars, for she had come to view particular anticipation as the surest way to guarantee something else would happen. Mostly, she thought about Alfred. After his return, they had spent hours, indeed days, in deep conversation until they found again the place between them where all was laid bare. From there, they took each day as it came, a little unsure of what should happen next. Alfred unfailingly attended to her needs from the silliest discomfort to the confiding of unthinkable fears, but he did not hide from her his struggle nor his need to be often alone. She honoured it, and in contemplating her father-in-law’s admonition to keep the loss of Drummond in its place, she conjured the idea she could indeed keep a place – a place of loving memory, as she had promised, and of solitary communion for the living man who could not be whole without it. 

Arriving at the gentle, chosen spot, she surveyed the mounds of moss, the shadows of the trees, and the crooked paths the rains took to the stream. It was a place of peace, out of the way of the formal gardens, protected by the ancient lime. Upon the stones, she hoped to build a little cottage with bright East-facing windows and a private garden of burgundies and silvers.

Lost in her thoughts, she almost overlooked the hulking figure of Jules resting against the trunk of the lime with a hunk of brown bread in his hand and a large book balanced on his knees. _Blast!_ She had hoped to begin her work in secret. Then again, she could hardly worry for the gab of Jules. She was not sure she had heard him speak fourteen words all summer. In fact, she was not entirely sure of his intellect … except – she looked more closely – there he was reading Hobbes’s _Leviathan_.

“Good afternoon Jules!” she called. He raised his head and tipped his cap. “I’ve come to sketch an idea for that old foundation. I hope I won’t disturb you.” Jules shook his head then tipped his cap again. Wilhelmina proceeded with her task, measuring with her feet, which were a precise nine inches, and plotting the details on the sketchpad she had divided into little boxes each representing a square foot. Absorbed in his text, Jules was not watching her, but the awkwardness of unsociable company proved a bigger distraction than she could stand. She called to him again, “Say Jules, I wonder if you would give me your opinion.” With neither interest nor complaint, Jules laid down his book and walked over to where Wilhelmina held out her sketch. “Do you think we could build this here?”

Jules studied the drawing and looked back at the stones and studied the drawing again. “Perhaps,” he answered. 

Attempting to hide her frustration, Wilhelmina offered, “Jules, you needn’t feel shy to speak to me.”

“Pardon, M’lady. I’m not shy of you. It’s just I’ve got nothing to say. You ought to ask Greenleaf. I’m afraid I haven’t much interest in building.”

“You prefer the philosophy of government?” replied Wilhelmina pointing to the book. Jules shrugged his shoulders and nodded. “Rather a heavy tome for a pleasant afternoon. But then, I have an uncle who thought it a bedtime story. Very well. I shall leave you to it,” she said as she tucked the pad into her elbow and started away to find Greenleaf. Jules tipped his cap a third time and returned to his spot beneath the tree.

Horace Greenleaf was finishing his own lunch in the shade of the garden shed by the potager. “Well, what do we have here M’lady?” he asked in lieu of a greeting.

“Oh, this?” asked Wilhelmina glancing at her sketchpad without untucking it from her side. “It is perhaps an idea for a new project. I came to speak with you about it, but first I wonder if you would indulge me in a curiosity.” The encounter with Jules had brought to the front of her mind the mystery that had struck her in their first meeting. “I just happened upon Jules reading _Leviathan_ of all things – an unlikely undertaking for one keen on a life of gardening – and I wondered if he had been to school and indeed what brought him to Wynnefield if his interest lies elsewhere.” 

Greenleaf rolled his eyes and leaned back on his heels. “The Foundling Philosopher,” he mused with a sort of resignation. Then seeing her curiosity would not be dismissed, he continued, “Jules was brought up here same as me, since the day I found him. He’s brighter than he ought to be. Academy ain’t his lot.”

“Found him?” asked Wilhelmina sceptically.

“Yes, Ma’am. Found him wrapped up in a little basket like Moses on the side of the road.” 

Wilhelmina squinted her eyes in disbelief. “And you raised him all by yourself?”

“Had a bit of help if you must know. I’ve a friendly woman up the road.” Wilhelmina raised her eyebrows and inclined her head, sensing that Greenleaf, who was always one for a story, was about to tell the tale. As predictably as a rabbit finds a hole in a fence, he obliged. “In days gone by, when I was young and the heirs were turnin’ over, not payin’ a might of attention, Betsy and I were sweethearts. I had the aim to marry her, but two objections set themselves between us. First the late baron in his state of personal exaltation got to thinkin’ it weren’t proper for staff to marry and put a prohibition on the institution. I might’ve left then and there but for the passin’ of her father. He was against us to begin with, as he had a little independent farm – the place up the road – to which he was quite attached, and I had no more than a place at fallen house. So, when Betsy, bein’ his only child, inherited, she couldn’t bring herself to go against his wishes. From that day on, she swore never to marry at all, so’s the thing wouldn’t get out of her hands.”

Wilhelmina started to nod her agreement with Betsy’s thinking but stopped herself as she caught the wistful look in Greenleaf’s eye. Instead, she asked, “But you remained friends?”

“I suppose,” answered Greenleaf with the broad implication of the term’s inadequacy. “She broke my heart, but I was as stubborn as I was thick-headed, and kept callin’ on her anyhow and offerin’ my help with the farm on Sundays. Got to be a regular habit, though it was no primrose path. She never makes a promise past next Tuesday.”

“Yet, you say she helped you to raise Jules?” Wilhelmina renewed her scepticism at the claim to his origin.

“Indeed, she was with me when I found him,” he replied plainly.

“Mr. Greenleaf!” exclaimed Wilhelmina with all the incredulousness that had built up. “Am I honestly expected to believe this tale? That Jules, who looks your mirror image, is a foundling? Surely you put me on!”

“M’lady, I expect you to believe the tale to the same extent as all the folk of East Angelia. It is the truth so far as everyone sees fit to call it. Now, might we call your curiosity satisfied for today?”

“Yes, of course,” said Wilhelmina, suddenly aware of the boundary she threatened to cross and the sacred duty to respect it, especially when she held her own protected truths right in the crook of her arm. “Please forgive me. A tale serving a truth deserves not the Inquisition.”

“It’s alright, Ma’am. Now, what do you have there on that paper?” 

*********************************************************

Roger Putney brought Eamon Callahan to Wynnefield on a dry and blustery day just as the first apples became jewels of amber, garnet, and ruby dangling ostentatiously from the wrists of the voluptuous orchard ladies. The abundance struck a poignant contrast, for the tall, otherwise broad man of roughly twenty-five was gaunt and sinewy from the meagre provisions of life on the road. His lank hair was cropped unevenly, the work of a knife applied to a rippling reflection in a trickling stream, and his grizzly beard suffered the same ill treatment. Though he possessed the language and custom of an urbane tradesman, he took no pains to hide the affectations that gave away his plight. Having already suffered exile and impoverishment, he had little to lose. Yet, his eyes showed no defeat, their clear, deep blue flashing the temperamental passion of a thousand dreams, revived and dashed and revived again. 

After he had finished a hearty portion of stew, bathed, and changed, he came to speak with Alfred in the library. Roger was with him, and it pleased Alfred to see their joy and relief at being together. Eamon made clear he expected nothing but would be obliged by the opportunity to shelter for the winter. He professed no cowardice for any work and demanded no conditions. That his pride only just overcame his desperation moved Alfred and settled his decision to find a place for the man. There was certainly enough work to do. 

In his mind, a plan began to form. He would need to discuss it with Wilhelmina, as it could not be accomplished without her support, but he perceived a chance, in offering refuge to these men, to give them what he might have had. Just so, it was a greater risk than anything he and Drummond could have devised no matter how they chose to live. Two powerful men at the very top of society could get away with nearly anything so long as they avoided spiteful enemies and gross indiscretion, but the harbouring and encouragement of commoners would be taken as another matter altogether. The righteous mobs tended to demand heads. Still, he felt called to bring what advantage he had to the cause of love and the keeping of his fellow man.

**************************************

That night, in the yet undecorated, whitewashed bed chamber, Alfred stretched out on the new four-poster bed across from his wife, who sat propped luxuriously against deep pillows. Through his care for her, whether it came naturally or with conscious application, the notion of their child had grown familiar and mercifully separate from the complicated thoughts still occupying corners of his mind. He had re-entered her shelter and was no longer afraid. Rather, he was fascinated by the new curves of her belly, revealed by her thin night dress in the most plain and lovely way. Gazing thus, he took her feet and kneaded them with gentle affectionate squeezes.

“Were you very sick today, Darling?” he asked.

“Not at all, and that is a few days now. The sickness seems to have subsided.”

“That is wonderful news! Do you think you are fit to travel a bit?”

“I don’t see why not. I know we should return to London soon. Or did you have something else in mind?”

“I suppose once we settle in London, it will be for the duration, so I thought perhaps before we do, we might accompany Papa back to Holyhead for the christening of Adelaide’s baby. I feel I owe it to them.”

“Oh Alfred, that sounds splendid! When shall we go?” she asked with excitement.

“I say next week. There are some things I wish to put in place beforehand. Speaking of which, did you meet our guest?” he asked, finding his opening.

“I did. The poor man. I can only imagine.”

“Yes, imagine…” Alfred paused to gather his thoughts, staring absently across the room. His expression turned pensive. “I have been nearly lost to imagining, but I wonder if such a flaw might find its use in the aid of others.” He looked back and found her eyes, saying more decisively, “Wils, I think it would soothe my conscience to extend a kind of hospitality to those who find it hard to come by. … Shelter, company, employment … to keep a place, here at Wynnefield, for the people of secrets.” Wilhelmina reached for his hand with a look of loving pride, and he brought himself closer so he could take it. “I hoped you would agree. I thought you might, considering your having taken in Mrs. Glendenning.”

“Mrs. Glendenning?” Wilhelmina demurred. She had not brought up the circumstance of the housekeeper’s hiring.

“Wils, my ever-innocent darling, I recognised Mrs. Glendenning – or rather, Miss Jory Drew – straight away. You did not know she is something of a legend? She had The Hound and Rose.” A look of shock crossed Wilhelmina’s face. “Not my cup of tea, Darling,” he corrected, then without taking his eyes from hers, he moved his massage up her calf, behind her knee, and to the inside of her thigh. “But when one is often enough in the company of cavalry men … I dare say, there was a good deal of grumbling when she closed shop.” 

“Goodness. Is it known she is here?”

“I think not, and I am sure she can be trusted to cover her tracks. Darling, I am not displeased to have her. Such a case is precisely what I have in mind. That is, should it please you to lend your support.”

“How well I would be pleased to keep prey from the hawks of virtue. But secrets. I should think they are wont to trumpet themselves despite every confidential hush. As you have pointed out, better to trust the fiction of plain sight.” She reached down to ruffle his hair as though to prove the differences between nature and presentation. Thinking further on the subject, she added, “Did you know, Greenleaf has a woman up the road who by any common description is a wife? And that the two of them claim Jules as a foundling no more explicable than Moses?”

“There were perfectly good explanations for Moses. Bithiah chose to ignore them.”

“Well, as apparently does the entire population of the region. I only mean people cease to be intrusive when they have a story they prefer. I need not tell you in any case.”

“No, but, Wils Darling, I must be sure you understand. Even the most endearing fictions cannot preclude their dangers. We shall be taking on a risk, and not only on our own behalf.” He slipped his hand past the bone of her hip to softly caress her belly. 

“Then we shall just have to instil in the little one the honour and courage of its father.” She put her forehead to his and kissed his nose.

He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. “Is it honour?” he asked. “Indeed, most would call it dishonour.”

“In my estimation, it is the only honour,” she said. Then she kissed him with the passion of noble inspiration, of fiction and reality swirled into truth, and of the purity of purposes beyond carnal pleasure. 

And so it was, they began the mission their grandchildren would call “The Wildlife Refuge.” Over the years, Wynnefield Hall would see a patchwork of society’s marginal inhabitants – a pair of laundresses who were most certainly not sisters, a driver who had done anything to reduce his prison term so he could rescue his daughter from cruel guardians, a scullery maid who still worshipped the pagan gods, and many more. But all of that was to come.

There at the start were only a few incidental kindnesses, and the lofty notion more might be done, and the mystical way such a covenant brought husband and wife together. The philosophical became the physical, and Alfred tried, earnestly, to return Wilhelmina’s kisses in the same high-minded fashion, but what was the point of the whole endeavour if not to make room for pleasure too? “I am glad that is settled,” he whispered in her ear, letting go of all concern but how to love her as delicately as he could.

******************************************

The trip to Holyhead passed with less excitement than the previous trip to Wales, though the reunion was no less sweet. For the nursery, Wilhelmina brought a gift of pressed asters, daisies, and moss, and a captured butterfly from her garden that she had attached to a delicate piece of lace and placed within an oval frame of burnished gold. Adelaide found it touching and had it on the wall within an hour. Her baby daughter was as tiny as one would expect with a blushing, golden head like a little peach. She was agreeable and quiet, and everyone joked she must take after her father already. Fred doted on her constantly, never sure that she had enough blankets, or perhaps too many, or that her little squeaks were not signs of some greater need. Adelaide chided him with tired smiles and begged Alfred to take him shooting or sailing or to the theatre – she had abundant ideas – so he might have more to do. 

While they were out, she regaled Wilhelmina with the particulars of her delivery, and every last detail of what she might expect, and much advice on pregnancy and the care of infants. She had become an overnight expert on the subject, thanks, she said, to the stacks of magazines and pamphlets she foisted on Wilhelmina, claiming she had gleaned everything there was to know. Wilhelmina was not sure whether to shrink in horror or laugh out loud, but she managed to neither and kindly humoured her sister-in-law’s misplaced generosity.

Later the Marchioness pulled her aside. “I do hope, Dear, you let my daughter’s advice find its way in one ear and out the other. She means well, but it is all balderdash. You’ll find no harm in keeping to convivial habits. I dare say, one cannot do better than a contented household. Excess energies want to invent anxieties. Adelaide is wound up even for herself, and did you see Cousin Fred jumping like a toad? Unperturbable Frederick Cadogan, tense as a soldier on the front line.”

Wilhelmina giggled, “Mama, you needn’t fret. I am sure they will find their way, as we all must. And I should not like to rebuke Adelaide’s good heart, but I am not persuaded. I find I am more inclined to simply do what comes naturally. I’ve had other concerns in any case, as you well know.”

“But things are better now, Dear?” asked the Marchioness, unable to fully mask her worry.

“We do not ask for perfection, Mama,” replied Wilhelmina, reaching out to squeeze her hand in solidarity. “But, yes, much better.”

*******************************************

The christening party proved a joyous success, though it left everyone involved a bit exhausted. So, the following day, the attending Angelseys took a picnic to the seaside to unwind and enjoy the crisp autumn air. The Marchioness had yet to speak with Alfred properly, so she asked him to walk with her along the shoreline. She could tell by Alfred’s tense comportment something was on his mind, but she knew better than to ask directly. Patiently, she waited. He stared at the waves rolling in and out, listening to their rhythm until at last he relaxed enough to ask, “Mama, how was it that you raised us to take our places in Society with honour for both our duties and ourselves? I dare say, we must have made the effort akin to navigating Scylla and Charybdis.”

The Marchioness squeezed his arm where she held it and paused before responding, “Alfred Dear, I doubt I can satisfy your question, for it is not one great question, but a thousand little ones along the way. Foremost, I loved you all as best I could, each as you needed. Septimus, bless him, needs direction. Adelaide needs to know she is important. You? You only ever needed to know you could come home.”

Alfred inclined his head to meet her eyes and with a half-smile, replied, “And I always could, even when I stayed away. I believe I never knew what a fortune I possessed. I only wish to give the same.”

“You will,” she answered. “A fine balance it is between demanding the achievement of standard obligations and knowing when to come inside and lock the door. Having arrived at wisdom, you will want to make the decision every time, but above all, you must let them fall … though such laissez-faire will want to kill you.” Wisely, she did not bring up the case of dire situations that required a heavier hand. She trusted the recent example was enough. Nor did she belittle his pain, nor tell him how he would suffer tenfold to see it in the eyes of his child, for she wished place a balm upon the wound rather than rub salt in it. Yet, she could not keep herself from musing, “I sometimes wonder if I acted too permissively with you and Septimus and Adelaide. I was harder on the older ones, you know.”

“As they are fond of reminding me.”

“You do not remember, Dear, but it was such a mournful time when you were small, when the last three all perished before I could know them. They were not meant for this world, but they gave me devotion to spare, and fixed in me the impression that you three should be my last, and perhaps I should hold on. Quite unfair, but that is love.”

“On that account, Mama, I would not trade places with anyone,” he said resolutely, as he pulled her into a sideways embrace.

“You could not if you tried,” she answered, holding tight to his arm as she beamed a smile as sparkling as the sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always for reading! If you suspect, Dear Reader, that there is a veritable explosion of original characters happening, you are correct. I can’t control it. They come into the story and I can’t very well keep them from you. I’d love to know if you like this development. (I love hearing from you in general!) May I also just say that I dearly love Alfred’s mom, and if you are hoping for her to have more character flaws than a propensity to press possessions on her children, you will be sadly disappointed. :)
> 
> On a housekeeping note, I try to write in British English (and Victorian British English at that), but I speak modern American English and my language exposure is limited to television dramas, so I am sure I get a lot wrong, especially on the vernacular dialogue. Please let me know if any mistakes are egregious.
> 
> Floriography:
> 
> Flower pressing was a serious hobby in Victorian times with lots of variations from jewellery to scientific catalogues.
> 
> * Aster – September birth flower symbolising love, affection, wisdom, daintiness, patience, and charm  
> * Daisy – Traditional new baby flower, symbolising innocence, purity, new beginnings  
> * Moss (when paired with daisy) – Symbolises mother love  
> * Butterfly – Symbolises the soul, death, and rebirth, in the context of a new baby it might be the company of departed relatives the child would never meet; also butterfly motifs and artifacts of natural history in general were simply fashionable
> 
> Historical Notes:
> 
> You can find more information on the Town Police Clauses Act of 1847, the Band of Hope, and the Temperance Movement in general on Wikipedia. For our purposes, these developments represent the ascendant belief in Victorian times that humans and therefore society could be perfected if only enough control – self, cultural, state – could be brought to bear. 
> 
> Suffolk was indeed in decline/transition in the mid nineteenth century due to changes in the wool industry, and there was political unrest at times. However, the Fullers Guild is pure fiction.
> 
> The George and Dragon is a present-day establishment in Long Melford – no idea if it existed in 1847; William Roper’s horsehair factory in Lavenham did exist and did employ a lot of women, but the characterisations here are fictionalised; The Hound and Rose and its proprietor are entirely invented.
> 
> The real Henry and Charlotte Paget, Marquess and Marchioness of Angelsey, did lose their last three children in infancy, which had to have been awful even in a time more comfortable with death.


	13. In Bleak Midwinter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilhelmina struggles with the limitations of pregnancy confinement, but Alfred comes through with a few Christmas surprises to cheer her up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t let the chapter title fool you, Dear Reader. This is the Christmas episode. It’s Ally and Wils, so there’s bound to be a bit of angst and reckoning, but otherwise, it’s fluff all the way down – rebelliousness, scheming, snow, beautiful people flirting, drinks, lavish gifts, outfits, more than one trip to the bedroom, and a bit of nearly insufferable cuteness. Happy Valentine’s Day Everyone!

The first of December brought the kind of charming frost where the world appears to have fallen under the magic of winter sprites, who in the night skate along the panes of glass and kiss each holly leaf and grassy blade, dressing them with fractal lace and hoary fur both stiff and delicate. Wilhelmina wanted nothing more than to walk the Palace garden and take it in, but she had agreed not to be seen in public from this day until the ceremonies to conclude her lying in. The papers had already said enough about her form “bursting from beneath her gown” as she “took a daredevil’s view of decency” and “eschewed prudence regarding the delicacy of her condition.” She had done no more than enjoy a slow Waltz with her own husband at an exceedingly boring Palace reception, and perhaps it was the dead atmosphere of that occasion that brought the vultures out, but if the queen herself was expected to uphold propriety, then her court must do the same. Thus, they had agreed to December. It was an arbitrary cut off to be sure, but there could never be a pleasing date to submit to a confinement. 

Just so, she stared longingly out the window until at roughly ten o’clock, a feeling of pity crept from the back of her mind and began knocking at her consciousness. That would not do at all! She stood up, straightened her shoulders, and shuffled to the library to make a list of projects with which to cheer herself and occupy her time. To arrange the nursery would be a delightful distraction, and she must be sure she had her stationary in order for the notes of thanks, and she intended to learn at least three lullabies to fill the baby’s dreams with music. As well, she must keep a daily correspondence with Greenleaf to ensure perfect timing of the winter ordering and spring planting that she would dearly miss, and she should devote more than a few diligent hours to designing Alfred’s garden if she wished to begin it within the year. Yes, there was surely enough to fill a few dark winter months.

As she sat behind Alfred’s desk, which she always preferred to her own, she found the day’s post already delivered. In it were the first invitations of the Christmas Season. Thick ecru cards with gilt edges and shiny red wax seals, each teasing with promises of gay evenings among jovial company. Mining her resolve, she found Alfred’s finest pen and her most elegant cards and wrote her genuine regrets with poetry so touching it bordered on impolite.

Having left the cards for Beale to post, she veered spontaneously from her planned list to a determined effort at conjuring a yuletide sentiment within the house. At noon, she leafed through the catalogue for Harrods and selected decorations no one would see, at two, she found her folio of festive music and practiced carols no one would hear, and at three, she met with Mrs. Willet and planned menus of delicacies and sweets no one would taste. No one, save her and Alfred in the moments he could get away from functions at the Palace. By four, her windows to the world were already dark, at eight she ate dinner alone, and by the time Alfred arrived home that night, her mood ranged between frustrated and sullen, and despite her commitment to stoic resignation, she cried on his shoulder. 

Alfred held and comforted her, finding his own irritation at the ludicrous custom that sapped the joy from what should be the happiest of times. If they only could have been at Wynnefield, within the hedgerows, at least she would have freedom to walk her gardens, a trifling consolation perhaps, but an infinity compared to the cold, colourless courtyard. However, he had already stayed away too long, and he remained in a state of renewal to his commitments at court. He vowed to himself to shower her with attention as often as he could and began to formulate plans to relieve the cruelty of the circumstance.

The first act of his plotting was a routine conversation with Victoria, in which he casually dropped the seeds of ire with a passing question as to how she might like to handle Christmas Eve. She too was with child, roughly a month behind Wilhelmina, and by Christmas, showy public celebrations would be unseemly for her as well. Predictably, Victoria voiced her annoyance only to be guided back to convention by Albert. Also predictably, she later pulled Alfred aside to say the predicament roused her sympathies for Wilhelmina who must feel discouraged indeed without even official duties to require appearances, and so far as her prerogative extended, might they sneak across the street and join the Royal Family for their private celebration. Alfred nonchalantly accepted.

Next, he called on Mrs. Skerrett, Henry Poole, the jeweller Robert Garrard, and his favourite undisclosed florist. Skerrett was only too pleased to repay her perceived debt from the placement of Mrs. Glendenning and agreed to devote her spare time to the design and construction of a fine gown for the occasion of Christmas Eve. Poole, happy to have a new bespoke commission from one of his most prominent clients, in addition obtained for Alfred a bolt of emerald taffeta and a forest green velvet trim cut like outsized lace. (There was also a commission of a more covert nature, but that was for later.) Garrard produced a matching emerald and gold choker and a pair of girandole earrings, and the florist accepted a standing order for fresh greens, winter berries, and whatever greenhouse delights came in, to be delivered on Mondays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. On top of the order, Alfred bought a large shallow vessel to be filled with loam and moss and planted with several amaryllis bulbs. Their daily progress toward majestic bloom seemed to him a far lovelier way to mark time than any clock or calendar.

********************************************

By the end of the first week, Wilhelmina had read two novels, reread one, gotten through the Christmas numbers of several magazines, and was now thoroughly bored with reading. Her correspondence was dispatched far too efficiently, and her various projects progressed with far too much ease, taking up only the time between breakfast and luncheon and leaving the tyranny of endless afternoons. To her chagrin, Mrs. Willet had increased her attentiveness tenfold, checking on Wilhelmina by the hour and waiting on her hand and foot. Her coddling demeanour dripped with indulgence, but the wicked glint in her eye betrayed delight at bolstering Wilhelmina’s limitation. The house, which once seemed so vast, shrank by the day, and she could swear someone had added three new courses to the courtyard walls. Thank goodness, Harriet and Aunt Buccleuch had called for tea, and by no means on the same day. She was sure she would have otherwise gone mad.

Sunday was blessed indeed, as after church, Alfred joined her for a cosy afternoon, a fine dinner, and a dreamy evening in the music room that ended with the doors shut tight. But Monday came again, and he was gone as early as an illicit lover, which was his habit in any case, but still left the bed cold and sparked pangs for the day before. Wilhelmina forced herself to get up and begin her routine as soon as the sun lit the first grey clouds with hazy pink. Again, she was through her tasks by luncheon, and afterward she paced the library, half wishing Mr. Drummond would come to frighten her again, if only for something to do. Standing beside his portrait, she looked out the windows across the street to the Palace gardens. The sun beamed warmly on the winter birds busy gorging themselves while it shone and taking flight whenever it seemed the thing to do. Suddenly, she was overcome by the conviction that she must get out.

But how? How could she escape both the watchful Mrs. Willet and the neighbours – not to mention the lurkers – of Grosvenor Place who were sure to recognise her. She could not risk embarrassing Alfred or subjecting him to one of Prince Albert’s reprimands. Yet, she absolutely, in no uncertain terms, had to get out. Sinking down in Alfred’s desk chair, she hatched a plan.

That afternoon, she took out Septimus’s breeches, which with prescience, she had brought from Wynnefield. Into the seams, she swiftly sewed larger swatches of calico. The next day, she gave her morning attentions to the nursery, which comprised two rooms on the top floor. Then in the afternoon, she rang for Beale and Mrs. Willet to tell them she most certainly heard vermin in the attic, and she would not be able to rest properly until they had investigated, and it would ease her mind if they would do so promptly and personally. She played into their expectations of hysteria, and like clockwork, they complied. While they were thus occupied, she changed into her breeches and boots and shut her bedroom door before creeping downstairs. Avoiding the other servants, she lifted Beale’s cap and cloak from the hook by their exit and slipped out. She hurried across the courtyard, dropping three blankets and a book on the chaise as she passed by. In the coach house, she stashed her own cloak and bonnet before letting herself out into the alley. A right turn, another quick left, and she was beyond view of the windows should the attic pests give up the chase to soon.

Her heart was racing as she leaned against a wall to allow a carriage to pass, and she nearly choked at the foul smell of manure, trash, and soot, yet she smiled broadly at the exhilaration of her escape. Undeterred, she began walking with her head high and her shoulders back, from time to time turning her face up toward the sun. She noted with delight the details of the alleys. They were a veritable downstairs for all the neighbourhood, with a purposeful spirit and diligent inhabitants too busy to pay her any notice. _Perfect!_ She walked for more than an hour in a great loop that finally led back home. 

When she arrived at the coach house door, it was all she could do to force herself to depress the lever for the latch. She took a last look around, smiled to herself, then quickly went inside. She changed her cloak and hat, neatly placing Beale’s among the coachman’s livery, an incongruity that when compared with others past, was of no consequence. She could hear the coachman, who also served as groom, whistling as he forked hay in the loft upstairs. She had not accounted for him and was relieved he did not hear the latch nor feel the draft through the open door. Silently and carefully, she sneaked though the second door into the courtyard where she took her place on the chaise under the three blankets, being sure to hide her boots, and opened her book with a calm entirely contrasting to the thrill she felt inside.

Not three pages in, Mrs. Willet was at her shoulder wondering how it had escaped her notice that the lady of the house had come outdoors, and if she needed blankets why did she not ring. Wishing not to further suspicion, Wilhelmina sweetly thanked her for the concern, then, with all the innocence she could muster, she claimed a sudden craving for hot cocoa that she must have at once. Mrs. Willet eyed her sideways, clearly still suspicious, and further nonplussed to receive a task not of her own invention, but she had no argument, so however reluctantly, she left to fill the order.

Wilhelmina let herself collapse against the back of the chaise, squelching laughter at the absurdity of her sneaking. She would have to do better if she went out again. And on that matter, there was no question. After her cocoa and a chapter she would have to read again, she came inside and found the order sheet for Harrods. She filled it in with the decorations she had selected the week before and on a second page, she put in lines for a man’s workaday cloak and cap, a dull scarf, and a pair of woollen fingerless gloves. She tucked the sheets into a card with a note that the order from the second page should be delivered ahead of the rest, with utmost speed, and to her alone. Should anyone ask, she would modestly suggest the need for new unmentionables.

Two days later, at nine in the morning, the package arrived. She opened it in the library, and after a satisfactory examination of the contents, she found the false panel in the bookcase, just to the right of the hearth, that hid a deep recess where they kept the _Kama Sutra_. Into it, she tucked the winter wear. Later she would add her clothes and boots. At noon, she rang for Beale and Mrs. Willet and informed them that she had begun to tire in the afternoons and wished to rest in the library between two and four o’clock daily with a strict prohibition against being disturbed. At one, she ate a hearty lunch, and at two the servants went down for theirs, and she retired to the library and shut the doors. As soon as all was quiet, she took her costume from the hidden cabinet, changed in Alfred’s dressing room, and quietly exited through his private back door.

She hurried to the alleys, taking the same route she had before, drawing the cloak close around her as the day felt chillier with the sun behind low grey clouds. She both relished and minded her time and generally felt quite pleased with herself for attaining blessed freedom and a most intriguing break to the monotony. Arriving back at twenty to four, she listened for the coachman. She had gambled that he did the same chores at the same time each day, and to her fortune, she heard him ascend the ladder and begin whistling. She crept silently through the two doors, then along the walls, then back through Alfred’s door where she repeated the whole costume process in reverse. At five to four, she indeed felt a little tired, so she sat on the sofa and closed her eyes until she heard the chime of the clock. Then, putting on her most rested expression, she opened the doors and went up to practice piano until tea with no one in the house the wiser.

She went about the same programme the next day and the day after that, taking a sketchbook in which to record the little details of the alley world as she grew more confident and interested with each outing. Sunday came and went, another languorous respite in Alfred’s company. He noticed her demeanour had improved and remarked that he was quite relieved to see she was adjusting. Briefly, a pang of remorse hit as she begged off, staring out the window and murmuring she was trying. Monday’s weather brought foul wind and rain, but Tuesday roared in sunny, and the adventure began again.

On Friday, exactly two weeks and two days since her confinement began, Wilhelmina wrapped her scarf an extra time around her face. The day was cold and smelled of coming snow – the first of the season. _How exciting,_ she decided, letting her passion for her escapades cloud her better judgement, and out she went. She had nearly reached the point where she must turn around when the first flakes began to fall, light as fine sugar. She smiled as they danced in front of her face and settled on the ironwork of gates, the stone of walls, and the branches of the trees that rose above from the gardens within. Sugar became pearls then downy feathers as the flakes grew larger and began to stick together. By the time she was halfway home, an inch-thick blanket of white covered everything, and the alley became precariously slippery. Her cap and cloak too gave up repelling it, and only her continual brushing kept it from accumulating. Still, she revelled. She would rather feel the whims of nature than the suffocating constancy of the house.

***

Alfred observed the start of the snow from the window of a Palace drawing room. Its arrival meant the queen’s outing would be postponed, so he found himself with a rare unoccupied afternoon and evening. Happily, he excused himself from the idle musings of Sophie Monmouth and Emma Portman. Donning his blue and red cavalry overcoat, he mounted his horse and road the long way around the park, enjoying the magic of the snow filling the gardens before heading across the street to where he hoped to surprise his wife. As he turned down the alley toward the coach house, he spied an unexpected and oddly familiar figure hurrying toward the same destination from the opposite direction. Upon spotting him, the figure froze. Curious, he urged his horse onward then pulled up and dismounted in one graceful motion. In front of him stood Wilhelmina, under a snowy tradesman’s cap and cloak, looking sheepish. He hitched his horse to a post, opened the coach house door, and ushered her inside. She walked straight through and back out into the open courtyard. Bewildered, Alfred followed.

“Isn’t the snow splendid?” she said, holding her hands up as if to catch it.

“Wils Darling, what are you doing out here?” he asked in response. “And what is this?” He gestured to her ensemble with a puzzled but fanciful expression. “Are you in disguise?”

“Oh Alfred, I simply had to get out of the house,” she replied, feeling pre-emptively defensive, though Alfred had given her no reason. “I am so stifled as to be driven mad!” She clinched her fists and rushed her explanation in tones of breathless pleading. “I must have air and exercise and the same must be good for the little one. Whenever I lie down, it becomes so restless, squirming and jabbing it limbs up under my ribs, yet whenever I am walking, it settles so contentedly. Oh, please don’t say you are angry.”

“No, I am not angry,” he said with a laugh, placing his hands on her shoulders, as the snow fell softly around them. “Perhaps a little worried for your safety, but not angry.” Charmed by her defiance, he could not help but feel a bit of pride. He smiled warmly and asked, “How long have you been going out like this?”

She looked down and answered, “For several days now.” Then looking at him directly, she implored “Oh Alfred, it helps me so. Please don’t ask me to stop.”

“Why should I ask you to stop?” he replied, enveloping her icy fingers in his warmly gloved hands. “Such a request would only force you to lie to me directly when you needn’t have hidden your desires from the start. Darling, my purpose is ever to achieve your happiness.”

“But, Alfred, our position. What would you have advised? You well know we cannot remain within the good graces of Society and also escape the bonds.”

“No, but as you have discovered, there are ways around. I am only saying I would have liked to have known, perhaps to have offered my assistance. I wish to take nothing from your ingenuity, my darling, but I like to think I may have played a part in teaching you the art of subterfuge.” He again appraised her disguise from his old boots to her boyish snow-covered cap, and he recalled the spark he felt the first time he saw her dressed in his old clothes.

Her eyes glimmered from under the brim as she said, “Indeed. Tell me, have I met your standard?”

He pulled her close and whispered, “I should say you have exceeded it.” Then he put his hand behind her head and kissed her ardently. Her cap fell backward to the ground, and she felt her face caressed by Alfred’s lips and his hands and the weightless, icy flakes of snow. She shivered.

Alfred pulled back and gave her another direct look. “Now, I am taking you inside,” he said with mock authority and a sly smile. “I need not remind you of the perils of wet clothes. We must get them off at once and then I am and putting you to bed.” He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and led her into the house, calling downstairs to Beale to simply leave tea in her sitting room at five o’clock and not before. Then, he swept her up the stairs and into the bedroom where he too shed his clothes and covered her in soothing warmth and generous affection and no small amount of the exercise of which she was so fond.

The sound of Beale placing the tea tray on the table woke them from the dreamy half sleep in which they rested. As was her favourite habit, Wilhelmina clung to Alfred’s arm beneath her as he lay behind, reaching the other up over her side to caress her belly, finding with fascination the places where it jumped and undulated with the movements of the baby. Gently, he kissed her shoulder and the back of her neck. “I am sorry the burdens of modesty are so hard on you,” he said, then with an undirected sigh, “Alas, the pretences to which we must submit.” 

She turned over to face him. “When you put it in that light,” she said, “I feel childish knowing it will be over in a few months. I must do better to remember myself.”

Alfred neither affirmed nor corrected her sentiment but gave her an amused look, touching her nose as one might a child and saying “Nonetheless, it is clear to me, you need a bit more excitement. What do you say we host a dinner party?”

“Alfred, do not tease me with impossibilities. I am sure a party is quite beyond propriety.”

“Ah, but Darling,” he replied with a cock of his head, “We are so fortunate as to have friends with only one foot in the sphere.”

“Do you think they would come?”

“I don’t see why not. I shall extend the invitations, and you, my darling, busy yourself with preparations. I support any extravagance so long as it takes the place of foul weather.”

Wilhelmina gave him a look of coy contrition before reaching behind his head and pulling him into an excited kiss.

*********************************************

Wilhelmina did not stop going out, but true to her word, she avoided foul weather and diligently prepared to host dinner for six on the anniversary of their private engagement. Between the decorations from Harrods and the regular floral deliveries, there was not a room lacking in festive spirit. She placed the garden of amaryllis on the sideboard in the dining room, sprays of greens and berries on every mantlepiece, yards of Scotch pine garland on the railings of the stairs, and a cubby wreath with a voluptuous burgundy velvet bow on the front door. Her menu included all the delicacies of the season to be served in five courses before retiring to the music room for carols and stories.

The morning of the dinner, Alfred joined her for breakfast to go over the last details. As Beale refilled their tea and coffee, Alfred addressed him, “Beale, our guests this evening will arrive at the rear door. Please receive them without fanfare and show them to the library.”

Beale nodded dispassionately. “Very well, Sir.”

In contrast, Wilhelmina became incensed. “The rear door! Alfred, I will not dishonour our friends with such a reception. We can withstand a bit of trifling gossip.”

“We can, Wils Darling, but our guests may not wish to. Please trust me. Besides, no diversion worthy of the name ever came through the front door.” 

“Goodness, how thoughtless of me,” she relented. “In that case, the rear door needs attention,” she continued, finding an outlet for her outrage and desire to ensure a proper welcome. “Have your man send over greens to dress the door at once. At the eleventh hour, one can hardly afford to be picky, so any greens will do, but I want roping at least a foot thick for the frame, and wreath every bit as nice as the one he sent for the front … and a pineapple.”

“A pineapple?” asked Alfred with a half-smile. He could not hide his amusement at her sudden crusade of hospitality.

“Yes, a pineapple!” she said defiantly.

***

The extravagant decorations arrived and were hung just as darkness fell. Wilhelmina enjoyed a quiet tea in her sitting room, though she could hardly rest for her joyous anticipation. As she took the last bite of her scone, she heard Alfred arrive home earlier than expected. He exchanged words with Beale – something about preferring to take it himself – then the sounds of jaunty footsteps were on the stairs. In seconds, he was in the doorway of the sitting room with large gold box tied in a ruby velvet bow and another small box adorned with sprigs of cedar and red rosebuds.

“I intended these for Christmas Eve, but it would seem an early present is in order,” he said as he set the large box on the table with an excited smile. 

Wilhelmina eased herself out of her chair and reached for the tail of the bow. “Alfred, what is this?” she asked delightedly. Like a giddy child, she pulled off the ribbon and lifted the lid of the box. Inside was the emerald taffeta gown with the cut velvet trim. She pulled it out of the box, held it up by the shoulders, then hugged it to her body. “Oh, how gorgeous!” she exclaimed. “Thank you! Thank you!” With an unabashed smile and affectionate eyes, he held out the other box. Slowly she took it, knowing small boxes generally require greater care. Gently, she set the lid aside, revealing a second box covered in black silk with a hinged lid. She pried it open and gasped at the exquisite emerald and gold jewellery. No words seemed good enough, so she maneuvered around the table and threw her arms around him. He reached behind her, took the necklace, then turned her so he could fasten it around her neck, caressing her gently as he did so and finishing the clasp with a kiss.

“You had better ring for Alice,” he whispered in her ear. “I am impatient to see you.”

“Straight away, good husband,” she said and promptly pushed the bell.

Alice came in as Alfred went out. She helped Wilhelmina to bathe and get into her undergarments, then put her hair in ringlets behind her shoulders with the front pulled away from her face and fixed at the crown of her head with the cedar and roses from the present. The swept back style revealed the dangling girandoles and the sparking choker to great effect. Finally, Wilhelmina stepped into the lustrous gown. It had a round neckline just gracing her collar bones and wide bell sleeves falling to her wrists. The velvet trim was sewn down the bust to the high waist in three lines, one vertical in the centre and two diagonal from the outsides of the shoulders. The trim repeated on the sleeves both to finish them and provide a detail from the wrist to the elbow. The extra full skirt flowed to the floor in elegant drape around her belly. She looked into the glass and felt positively regal. As she put her feet into a pair of gold slippers, she heard the bell of the rear door and voices in the hall just as the clock chimed seven.

Captain Ashby had arrived with unfashionable punctuality. Beale showed him to the library where Alfred was prepared with a glass of champagne. The two men spoke of cavalry matters for a few minutes, until Alfred heard the sound of Wilhelmina on the stairs. He came out into the hall and motioned for Ashby to follow. They waited as she descended slowly from the third to the second floor, having become more than a little cautious of her balance. Finally, she emerged at the top of the staircase. She was radiant, and Alfred was at least as pleased that he had done well. “Wils Darling, you are a vision!” he called, charging up the stairs to meet her and guide her down. 

She beamed at him in her coy way but spoke first to their guest, “Captain Ashby, how lovely to see you!” 

Ashby raised his glass. “It is my pleasure, Lady Paget,” he replied. He was dressed in a perfectly tailored midnight blue coat with a matching silk bow tie and a silk waistcoat in an understated plaid. He had allowed a few of his blond curls to stray onto his forehead, and Wilhelmina thought to herself that he was one of the few men who looked more elegant out of uniform.

“I am sorry to have kept you waiting,” she said as she reached the bottom of the stairs.

“Not at all. On the contrary, I hope you will forgive the unsociable habits of military precision,” he rejoined as he bent to kiss her hand. 

They returned to the library where conversation turned most agreeably to books and art. At twenty-five past, Lady Charlotte Pomeroy and Miss Lavinia Davenport were announced and joined the group. Charlotte wore a plainly cut gown of garnet plaid silk with only large cameo brooch for decoration while Lavenia made up for her lack of adornment with a flouncy carnelian gown trimmed in ribbons and rosettes, matching drop earrings, and wide enamelled bracelets on each wrist. Ten minutes later, Lord Malory Fitzpatrick arrived laden with a large leather case on his back and another in his hand. The flicker of the lamps reflected off his dark hair and eyes and gave lustre to his crimson velvet frock coat. “Good evening Lord Fitz,” greeted Alfred with a laugh, “Have you come to stay a month?”

“I heard there was a need for excitement, so I brought a few party tricks,” he answered, setting down the cases and crossing the room to kiss Wilhelmina’s hand. “Lady Paget, may I say the season becomes you.”

“Lord Fitz, you are a flatterer indeed,” she replied with a blush.

Next, he turned to Charlotte, planting a showy kiss on her cheek, and taking both her hands in his. “Char, my dearest love,” he said in a voice dripping with melodrama. Charlotte squinted an eye at him but could not keep from laughing. “And Miss Davenport, how festive! I trust you both are well.”

“Very well, Lord Fitz. You?”

“I couldn’t be better,” he replied crossing back to where Ashby stood next to the bar. He gave the captain a firm pat, perhaps a squeeze, on the shoulder then lifted a waiting coup. “To merriment, good company, and our ingenious hosts who made it so!” 

“Cheers!” the group answered back, taking hearty sips all around. Dinner was served and enjoyed, and over its courses the party became comfortable, as little hints of accord and signals of trust made way for practiced barriers to fall and seldom-seen versions of selves to emerge. Wilhelmina could not have been happier. Alfred, having a jolly good time in his own right, was again quietly proud to have provided.

As the dessert concluded, Fitz made the request that they return briefly to the library bar and – if possible – with a few chips of ice. Intrigued, the curious crowd followed, trailed by Beale with the ice. In the library, Fitz set the smaller of the two cases up on the bar. He unfastened the leather straps and pulled from it several bottles – an 1811 Sazerac de Forge & Fils cognac with a yellowing label and a waxed stopper, a vibrant green absinthe, and a small apothecary flask with a curious liquid the same colour as his coat. Next came a cone of island sugar that might have graced an eighteenth-century table and a pair of antique silver nippers.

As he prepared a concoction from the assembled ingredients, he spun the tale of its origin, and by delightful detour, his own. “Last winter,” he gestured to Alfred, “while you were dazzling your bride with heroic feats of gallantry, I was dispatching my estate in the balmy melancholy of a world lost.”

“Ah yes,” said Alfred. “I had forgotten your plantation in Jamaica.”

“My beloved island home,” Fitz continued with wistful sentiment, “By the way, Lady Paget, I took note of your pineapple, and I adore you for it.” He pointed the bottle of absinthe in her direction, then began to tip out a small portion in each glass. “As it happens, I am of that fair island … more so than England, I’m afraid. Strands of my lineage arrived before Shakespeare could spell, and my great grandfather may or may not have been the governor in the time when sugar bought more than gold” (He was. It was in the record.) “And my grandmother, yet unknown to his son, may or may not have been a Spanish creole born to a piratess on the high seas.” (This was doubtful, but one never knows.) “She was a great beauty with salty raven curls and a saltier tongue, and when she came ashore in the autumn of 1763, she at once captured the heart of the governor’s son. The governor, of course, did not approve.” With a swish of his hand, he theatrically swirled the absinthe in the last glass and began ceremoniously adding the ice. 

The story went on as one might expect and revealed this grandmother of pirate blood to be how he came in possession of the silver nippers and the Spanish guitar, which was lovingly stored within his larger case. He had learned to play in his carefree boyhood, which ended abruptly when he was orphaned at thirteen and sent to England to be schooled and take his place among the aristocracy. He had scarcely been back, though the island had often called to him in his dreams.

He was now pouring into the glasses long streams of the remaining ingredients, which had been mixed in an oddly shaped silver carafe. His voice took a more resigned tone, as he said, “But alas, with the Sugar Duties it cannot be sustained. I sold what parcels I could to the tenants and the rest to Tate and Lyle. I believe they intend to grow bananas. Anyhow, I tried to help everyone I could. Dear Maurita, who I dare say loved me better than my parents, refused to leave, but St. John Peychaud, who had been our agent since before my birth, accepted passage to New Orleans where he has a cousin who is a fine apothecary.” He pointed to the name on the label of the flask of red liquid. “I stayed for the Mardi Gras, of course, and found myself at home in such a city of mystery, among the creoles who practice their dark magic as easily as they cleanse their souls. It was there I learned of this potion, which they call a cocktail.” He now took an orange from the case, tossed it in the air, and with a small, intricately carved knife, began cutting thin curls of its rind to place atop each glass. “Anyhow, it is all bygone now – the old world of grand adventure, grand danger, and grander heroism is all bygone, wouldn’t you say Lord Alfred?”

“Perhaps, though I am sure there are always the shadows,” Alfred replied, matching Fitz’s sentimentality. “Did you save nothing of the place?”

“Only a worthless few acre on a rocky cliff by the sea with a ramshackle cottage and charming little cove should I ever need to conceal my treasure.” He shot a smouldering glance at Ashby from under his thick eyelashes. With a graceful turn back to the bar, he distributed the cocktails. Wilhelmina apologized profusely but said she must refuse something quite so strong. “I thought that might be the case,” he said, deftly reaching back into his case for a bottle of ginger wine, which he swiftly poured and topped with juice squeezed from the orange and two dashes of the bitters, as he continued musing, “It is the habit of bygone eras to invent themselves in the imagination, and it is the habit of the romantic mind to imagine itself a relic of its own Atlantis. Surely those days of seaward treachery were more brutal, cruel, and deadly, but one cannot but have affinity for the free men of the ships with allegiance to no code but the honour amongst themselves.” He placed Wilhelmina’s drink in her hand. “Here, in our time, I suppose I find myself a scoundrel of a different sort.” He raised his own glass and managed to wink at everyone in the room at once, proclaiming, “A toast to honour among scoundrels!”

***

After such a production, there was nothing to do but change the scene. So, Wilhelmina led them all to the music room for the promised carols. The happy band followed, carrying their cocktails with them. Oohs and ahs of wonder filled the room as they entered to find a sparking Christmas tree – a surprise to everyone but Alfred – set up in the centre of the back wall. 

“How splendid!” exclaimed Wilhelmina. “Alfred, however did you manage it?”

“The magic of Christmas Darling,” he said with a wink, then “Today’s outing was a felling party, so I joined in.” 

“I did not know you were that sort of woodsman, Lord Alfred,” kidded Charlotte.

“I am many things Lady Charlotte,” answered Alfred with faux mystery, “though, I dare say, I contented myself with one ceremonial chop and generously left the rest for the brutely passionate. Shall I invite you along next time?”

Charlotte laughed heartily as the strum of Fitz’s guitar underscored the joke. He pulled a chair next to the piano and began tuning the instrument. Ashby stepped closer to the tree, inspecting it from top to bottom. “Major,” he called to Alfred, “May I ask how one might accomplish such a thing? How marvellous a surprise it would make for all my nieces and nephews on Christmas Eve.”

While Alfred gave instruction, Wilhelmina pulled Charlotte aside. “Are the little darlings ready?” she asked in a whisper.

“I brought them from the country last week,” answered Charlotte.

“Wonderful! May I ask you to bring them Christmas Eve? We are sneaking across to the Palace. Beale could help you get them settled.”

“Righto. It’s a plan.” Charlotte glanced away as Alfred stepped toward them, bringing his conversation with Ashby to the whole of the group. 

“Your nieces and nephews should be thrilled. Say, do you come from a large family, Ashby?” he asked.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” replied Ashby.

“Tell of your exceptional novelty, Quinn,” interjected Fitz, looking up from his guitar to beam a fond look.

“Ah yes,” Ashby replied, taking up his turn to share a story. “As it happens, by an accident of birth, I am the bearer of a rather singular claim. Like every fifth man, my Christian name is George, but all my family call me Quinn, as I am the fifth generation of fifth sons.” 

“A most improbable streak,” remarked Alfred, “Well done.”

“It was hardly my doing, and just as well my father accomplished the feat. Were it up to me, I’m afraid there would be round disappointment.” His statement was met with knowing looks and a couple of glasses raised in solidarity. He continued with a laugh, “For now, the cavalry man dodges the bullet, but I have sisters who want not for ammunition and will no doubt foist upon me introductions with increasing urgency until the day they decide I am an eccentric. Meantime, I counter as a guerrilla.” He made a sly half smile. “For each unprovoked sally, I swoop in to greet their children with all manner of sweets and mischievous presents to excite, inspire, and spoil just before I dust my hands and take my leave.” 

The party laughed as though it might have been the absolute best of inside jokes, while Fitz strummed his guitar again, this time in tune. Wilhelmina joined in with a giggle, but her eyes flashed a certain indignance as she perceived the hardship behind the comedy. Alfred caught it, and shot her a warning glance, as if to say _let the man have his chosen story._ Wilhelmina returned an almost imperceptible nod and turned her attention to organizing her music. Catching the exchange, Lavinia spread her hands to indicate the two of them. “Now for you, tis the season of Advent indeed,” she said warmly. “You must be bursting with anticipation. I must admit, I have always wondered what it might be like.”

“Well Love,” chimed in Charlotte, “Now Lord Alfred has taken up breeding, perhaps he could find you a stud.” Lavinia threw up her hands and gave a glance to the ceiling with a wry shake of her head. She shot Charlotte an affectionate smirk then turned back to Wilhelmina.

“Bursting, yes,” quipped Wilhelmina edgily, remembering the nasty comment from the paper. She wanted to decry the wretched loneliness, but she thought the better of it as the little one reminded her of her good fortune with a kick in the ribs. She winced, and placing a hand to her belly, simply said “All the lovelier among good company with which to share it.” She stepped behind the piano and handed Fitz a piece of sheet music. “Now, Lord Fitz, do you know this one?” she asked.

As she eased herself onto the bench, it occurred to her that while she prized her independence, she had her whole life maintained the mindset of a married woman, never considering any alternative until that blinking era when she stared with fear and anger into the oblivion of a solitary life. Alfred, on the other hand, shared a viewpoint with these friends, having never cultivated his mind toward the institution before spontaneously jumping in. He was at ease among his fellows, and she was the odd one out. Yet she realised in that moment, how his inexperience thinking as a husband was so often to her benefit, and she felt deeply grateful for it. She set aside her discomfort, smiled warmly at her guests, and struck a chord to start the duet. 

They played the old Sans Day carol as the others polished off their drinks. Ashby came to stand behind Fitz, and placing his hands on his lover’s shoulders, joined in with glorious tenor. Alfred ushered over the women arm in arm and leaned against the piano as he liked to do when Wilhelmina played. Seemingly from out of nowhere, more champagne appeared, and the carols continued with increasingly bawdy substitutions for the lyrics. Perhaps there would be headaches tomorrow, but for this delightful night, within the walls of 42 Grosvenor Place, one and all made merry.

***

Later, when all of the guests had slipped quietly out the rear door, Wilhelmina stood before Alfred, looking no less beautiful than she had at the start of the night. She should have been spent, but instead, she was more vibrant than he had seen in weeks. “Success?” he asked.

“Success!” she declared, then flirtatiously, “Perhaps you are my hero after all.” Alfred gave her a wary, demurring look, though not one without affection. He took her arm and led her up to the bed chamber, dismissing the servants on the way. With a wickedly curious glint in her eye, she continued in her flirtatious tone, “You and Lord Fitz seem cut from the same gold spun cloth. Did you ever…?” 

“Hardly,” he answered as he stood behind her, unfastening her gown. “Darling, I had my moments, but I was far less adventurous than you imagine. All this talk of heroes and exploits has gone to your head.” He kissed her on the temple to emphasize his point. “Haven’t I fallen far enough from your lofty pedestal?”

“That is thing about heroes,” she answered, bringing her hands to her shoulders, and dropping the top of the emerald gown. “It is the fallen who are most alluring.” He brushed his fingers up her spine, as she put her hands on her hips and stepped out of her petticoats and drawers all at once. Then, she turned around and, quite unnecessarily, returned the favour of helping him with his clothes. 

He wanted to embrace her myth, to play the role to its carefree conclusion, but a nagging sensibility held him back. He traced his fingers around the curves of her body then picked up her chin, confessing in his softest baritone, “Darling, were I among the heroes, I would stride before the dais, claim our liberty, and declare all that is fair and just in speech eternal. Then, having set myself against the zeitgeist, I would stand the trials of heresy and treason and meet a martyr’s death upon the gallows.”

“How dramatic!” she breathed, raking her fingers through his hair then down his arm, taking his hand and pulling him toward the turned-down bed. 

“I dare say, were I any kind of hero, things might have turned out differently all together, and we would not be here, but let us not wander down that path.”

Finding a comfortable spot among the pillows, she beckoned him to join her. “I believe,” she whispered, matching his seriousness, “like love, there is more than one kind of hero.” She ran her fingers down his sternum then back through his hair again, holding his face to look him in the eye and be sure he received her honest declaration.

“I suppose,” he half-heartedly conceded, laying back against the pillows. “The better part of valour and all that. An inglorious sort of heroism though, don’t you think?” 

She snuggled up against him, laying her head on his shoulder. “A martyr may serve his purpose for the generations to come,” she said, “but in the meantime, it is the clandestine hero who, seeking not glory, makes the world bearable.” Spontaneously, she sat up to face him and reached out to stroke his cheek. “So, I shall claim you whether you agree or not.” For all she had received, her heart swelled with appreciative love. She wanted him to feel as she felt. And so, overcome by the desire to give, she acted for his pleasure, spending the last of her energy as the clock chimed two.

**********************************************

Wilhelmina looked up, savouring the stars twinkling in the Christmas Eve sky as she lingered in her walk between the Palace doors and their waiting carriage. Had the celebration vanished so soon? She recalled fondly the moments just past. The church service had been warm and intimate. The dining room had been beautifully set with curious little packages on each plate – festively wrapped paper tubes that when stretched, cracked open to reveal a tiny charm. The scrumptious feast of roast goose and wild boar was only topped by the good show of the flaming pudding. She had been seated near Victoria and the two had commiserated in ways helpful to them both. Then, the climactic spectacle of the drawing room, lit with a dozen Christmas trees, put everyone in a proper state of awe. The Royal children all scrambled for their presents, and she and Alfred began to envision the fun to come.

“Wils Darling,” he called, breaking her reverie. He motioned to the open door as he stepped aside theatrically. “After you.” When they were settled in the carriage, he kissed her hand and said, “The evening is not yet finished, my darling. I have one more present for you.” Wilhelmina startled, remembering that which she hoped had been delivered without incident. Alfred looked at her quizzically. 

“I have a present for you too,” she said with a hint of mystery. “Two, to be precise.”

The carriage pulled up, and Beale greeted them at the door. He signalled to Wilhelmina all was well, saying with a formality that dropped no hint, “There is wassail waiting for you in the music room.” Alfred took her arm, and they started up the stairs. Halfway, the sound of a little whimper drifted into the passage. Alfred looked at Wilhelmina with the same quizzical expression, now with eyes flashing rapid guesses. He hurried his pace, and she excitedly matched it. They entered the music room with childlike anticipation, skipping the drinks and aiming straight for the back wall where the Christmas tree shone in all its glittering resplendence. They did not make it five steps when out from under the tree squirmed a puff of chocolate brown fur with a bright red silk bow. It sniffed curiously then started to wobble its way toward them. Alfred looked at Wilhelmina with an expression of surprised joy. Then, he knelt on the floor and beckoned the little puppy toward him. The puppy came, hesitantly at first, then sensing it had found a friend, it wiggled its way into Alfred’s arms. 

Alfred stood up, nuzzled the puppy, and began speaking to it in a soft but animated tone. “Let’s see you,” he said, holding the puppy out. It was a male Field Spaniel with long curly ears and a tuft of white on the chest. Hanging from the red ribbon was a pewter disc with the name Perseus. “Perseus,” he crooned, looking the puppy in the eye. Then, he looked back at Wilhelmina with an eyebrow raised at her humour. “Never was there a more fitting use for the name,” he said with droll certainty.

She beamed. “Have a look in the basket,” she said, pointing under the tree. “I believe his sister is still asleep.” Alfred stepped over and set Perseus down in the basket, where sure enough, another chocolate puppy was curled. He picked her up, and she rolled and yawned in his arms. She had the same curly ears but unlike her brother was all brown. Her tag read Andromeda. He cradled her and stroked her soft fur, saying to Wilhelmina, “My darling, they are splendid. How did you…?”

Wilhelmina was too excited to let him finish the question. “Charlotte Pomeroy brought them from the country and delivered them here while we were at the Palace,” she gushed. 

“Is that what the two of you were whispering about the other night?”

“We have been planning it for weeks. I thought you might like to have them at Wynnefield. Roger says he would be pleased to train them.”

“Slow down Darling,” he laughed. “That all sounds brilliant, but how could I part with such treasures?” he cuddled Andromeda close. “They will just have to go back and forth with us.” Just then, a tiny growl caught their attention. Perseus had found a box wrapped in crimson foil embossed with an intricate damask and tied with a giant gold bow. He had its tail in his mouth and was pulling and growling mightily. Alfred scooped him up. “Come now,” he said. “That is for Mama.” He turned to Wilhelmina, and they shared a surprised glance at the sound of his spontaneous use of the title. 

He put both the puppies in the crook of his left arm and held out the box for Wils with his right. “Happy Christmas, Darling,” he said. Wilhelmina opened the present to find an exquisitely tailored suit of clothes. There was a natty tweed jacket in a jaunty barleycorn that flared at the waist to form the suggestion of a skirt and a pair of olive tweed trousers with roomy hips and tapered legs to fit down into boots. Several linen shirts, floral printed kerchiefs, and gloves for every turn of weather lay underneath. She held them up with wonder. Alfred was quick to explain, “As much as I like seeing you in my old garb, I thought you might like something of your own … for after the baby, of course.”

“Alfred, how thoughtful you are! I would indeed, and they are positively spiffing!” She gently laid the clothes back in the box and leaned in to give Alfred a kiss. Before her lips reached his, the puppies had wiggled their way between them in spirited prelude to the symphony of interruptions they would come to know as their life together shifted to its next phase. She gave each one a pet on the head before taking to the piano to play a few soft carols. Alfred shed his coat and tie, kicked off his shoes, and laid back on the sofa. He coaxed the puppies onto his shoulder and lulled them to sleep.

The serene melody of the piano lilted above the crackle of the fire, which infused the air with the smell of wood smoke mingling with spices and fresh fir. Contentment fell over the room, and they were joined by that sense of warmth and peace suggestive of a spirit beyond Christmas. They smiled at one another, as through the windows bright stars twinkled in harmony with the flicker and glow of lamps and candles, precious symbols of all the light that comes to fill the darkness. For Wilhelmina and Alfred, it was the light of love, not only of the divine, but of exchanged vulnerabilities and salvations, ready to grow in new directions they could only just imagine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I gave you puppies. I thought you deserved it after all the darkness. Also, if you guessed that your author does not like being asked to stay in the house, you would be correct. ;) I hope you enjoyed the romp, Dear Reader. We’ll be back to our regularly scheduled drama and finally catch up to Series 3 in the next chapter. I have a bit of regrouping to do, so it may be a while. Meantime, let me know what you think. Do you have a favourite B plot? Any baby predictions? I always enjoy hearing from you!
> 
> Floriography:
> 
> * Evergreens – in Pagan times, reminders of the spring to come; for Christians, life everlasting; wreaths double the symbol with a circle, which means eternity.  
> * Amaryllis – See chapter 5.  
> * Pineapple – Western symbol of hospitality with roots in the various tropical colonies; they were both rare and expensive and therefore used to honour guests.
> 
> Historical Notes:
> 
> (Pregnancy) Confinement as a term is used somewhat ambiguously. Often, it was used only to refer to the birth itself; also often, interchangeably with “lying in” – the period of roughly 40 days after the birth when the new mother was confined to her bed or at least her home. Sometimes, however, it also referred to the entire period between the point the woman began to really show (roughly the third trimester), when she was expected, for modesty’s sake, not to be seen publicly and for safety’s sake to remain at home, and the end of the lying-in, which could total more than four months. It is likely such restriction unwittingly served a purpose of cleanliness/lack of germ exposure, but handwashing, which came into practice in the 1840s did far more to reduce mortality in childbirth. A long period of confinement may also have been something of a status symbol, as poor women could hardly afford to be away from work so long.
> 
> Garrard & Co was the first British Crown Jeweller.
> 
> The Sugar Duties Act of 1846 passed at the same time as the Corn Laws, equalized import duties for sugar from the British colonies (ended a tariff keeping prices artificially high). Since Britain had already abolished slavery, its sugar-producing colonies could no longer compete with Cuba and Brazil where slave labour made for cheap product. This had the effect of devastating the colonial planters in Jamaica and elsewhere, and they felt betrayed. The “winners” in the scenario were the Crown and the industrialists (Tate and Lyle is a real company that did buy up a lot of sugar land in Jamaica and diversify, but that was somewhat later, so it’s a symbolic anachronism with a nice ring to it here), and perhaps consumers of sugar. Outcomes for the formerly enslaved and other labourers were mixed, though mostly not a material improvement. A fortunate few were able to become small landholders as the plantations went bankrupt. Obviously, this is all a lot more complicated – plenty of resources on the infowebs. 
> 
> The Sazerac is the legendary (disputed) “first cocktail,” cocktails in general being a nineteenth century American invention. It was first mixed in New Orleans at some point in the 1840s by either one of several importer/bar owners or the apothecary Antoine Amedie Peychaud (no idea if he had cousins, much less cousins who were agents in Jamaica), who at any rate invented the bitters. The original recipe is hard to nail down, but it certainly contained the eponymous cognac and almost certainly absinthe. 
> 
> Yes, pregnant ladies drank alcohol. Hey, the water wasn’t clean.
> 
> Christmas Crackers were first introduced in 1847.


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